Rainbow Six: Cross Training
by Cheah
Summary: Team Rainbow cross trains with a group of its Singaporean counterparts. The whole series is a subreality, depending on the location. T for swearing, violence, and blood and gore. Finished.
1. Prologue

Rainbow Six: Cross Training

Legal stuff: I don't own anything related to Rainbow, Tom Clancy, etc., except for the books and a couple of the games. However, the Singaporean commandos, their unit, and this story are my ideas…and you can expect to hear more of the first two when I decide to go professional.

Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

-Psalms 144:1

Prologue: Initial Visit

Changi, Singapore

Army Special Operations Command

'Major' Domingo Chavez entered the single-storey building, accompanied by a captain named Christopher Wong. Both men were dressed in Vietnam-era jungle camouflage uniforms to blend in with the soldiers walking about. Chavez's lack of height helped in his disguise; not even the Eurasians in Singapore were very tall. Wong worked there…at least, somewhere in there.

Looking around, he saw several imitation-leather sofas scattered around in front of him. A pair of tables stood at the far end of the room, surrounded by some cheap-looking wooden chairs. A couple of vending machines selling snacks were mounted on the right wall. White-painted walls stared out at the American visitor.

The men were in a mess, more specifically, the mess for a very special Singaporean unit like Rainbow, though with some differences. In America or Britain, this would be the NCOs' or Officers' Club. Here, at least for this unit, there was only the Mess.

The Prime Minister of the Republic of Singapore visited England some weeks before Chavez arrived in Singapore, ostensibly as a courtesy call and to discuss some trade-related issues with his British counterpart. What the press didn't know was that both PMs had agreed to let each other's special forces train each other, specifically Rainbow and Singapore's black ops unit. NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization, pronounced 'nay-to', though some Singaporeans insist on 'nah-to') agreed to release Rainbow as well.

Right now, Chavez was visiting the Singaporeans' base, and Wong would do the same in two days. Then, the training would start.

Another glance around the room revealed a TV in front of the sofas, which was hooked up to an…XBox…?

"…Wong…what the hell?" Chavez asked, turning to face his host.

"We use computer games to think of new tactics and to sharpen our own. For example, we use _Full Spectrum Warrior_, since it's the best MOUT (Military Operations in Urban Terrain) simulation around short of actual US Army training simulations…but we call MOUT FIBUA over here. It stands for 'Fighting in Built-up Areas'. As I recall, the US Army is using computer simulators for training," Wong replied with a voice devoid of accents.

"…Hmm…In Hereford, we have a virtual reality simulator, called SWAT 6.3.2 or something like that. We use that instead."

"VR…?"

"Yeah. It actually lets you simulate an actual hostage rescue, from planning right down to execution. It even throws in the element of luck."

"Luck?"

"Yeah," Ding replied, grimacing. "On my first time, I got iced. A bullet supposedly hit me in the face just below my virtual helmet."

"Is the program any good?" Wong asked.

"…I'll give it a B+ overall. During the takedown phase, we've encountered many glitches, like a terrorist getting up after being shot in the head. The computer said I missed, when my sight picture was _perfect_!"

"…Damn."

"What's wrong?"

"We've got a…small budget. Don't be fooled by what you just saw; all those toys required extra funding, and we're not going to receive more money for this year's budget. This VR thing's going to cost a bomb, right? Our budget's tight, but we can buy some cost-effective equipment. 'B+' isn't enough for the bureaucrats."

"…Yeah. Six bitches about budget once a month, and the budget meetings with the bean counters."

"Six…Rainbow Six?"

"That's him."

"We call our CO 'Six', too. The whole of the SAF (Singapore Armed Forces) follows the Israeli practice of using 'Sunray' to denote officers or leaders, but…we're not official SAF."

"I know how it's like, man."

"Sure. My guys will be coming in shortly. Make yourself at home, sir."

"It's 'Ding'. I'm no major, just a mere E-7, our equivalent of your master sergeant, before the CIA kidnapped my ass. John's fault," Ding said with a smile, one pro to another.

"'John'?"

"John Clark."

"Oh."

Chavez found a chair, and settled himself into it. The Singaporean commando followed suit. Wong wasn't tall, not even by Asian standards, but he was actually taller than Chavez, much to the former's amusement and the latter's surprise. Both men were now equals, after a fashion.

"So Ding, what do you think about the men?" Wong asked.

"They're…almost as good as mine," Chavez allowed. Rainbow was better…by maybe a fraction. After all, Caucasians have an advantage in strength and height.

"Sure. That's why our PM wants us to cross train with you. And the CQB (Close Quarters Battle) demonstration?"

"Perfect. Your shooting was perfect, command and control was perfect, coordination perfect…I can't think of anything else. And you've got to teach the guys how to do that."

"'That'?"

"Shooting while rappelling down. Remember, during that demonstration…"

"Oh."

To showcase their skills, the Singaporeans put up a CQB demo that would have impressed even Clark. There were two buildings the commandos had: one conventional-looking Killing House, and one warehouse-like building. The Singaporeans used both for the day. In the latter building, the plan called for one team to enter via the skylight and another to secure the entrance/exit to the warehouse.

During the execution, the men abseiled from a helicopter, turned around, smashed through the skylight, and shot the dummy terrorists with their MP5A5s _while sliding down, using one hand to aim and fire their guns_. Damn, Chavez thought.

By the time the commandos had landed, the terrorists were all 'dead'. Wong said that they didn't use this technique very much, for obvious reasons. However, it was spectacular, inserts the men in through an unexpected route, and surprises the Tangos all around, so why not use it?

The door opened, and nine men stepped in. They were dressed in jungle camouflage, called 'Smart No. 4' in SAF-speak. Really, it didn't differ from the American tropical jungle camouflage design. However, unlike the American or Singaporean custom, the uniforms had no badges on them, nothing except nametags and ranks.

The men were all young, clean-shaven, and wore their hair just slightly longer than the average soldier, the better to disguise themselves as businessmen. They were also of different races, with two Malays, two Indians, and five Chinese.

"Morning, sir. How's your day?" one of the Chinese spoke up. His nametag read 'Tang'.

"Good. But…it's damn hot. Reminds me of Columbia."

Oops.

The Singaporeans had the good sense not to ask for elaboration, and Ding didn't volunteer any information.

"Guys, my name is 'Ding'. I'm no major," Chavez said.

"Okay. I'm Chris. Ding, these are the men who will be going with me to England next week," Wong said.

The commandos introduced themselves. Ding shook hands with every one of them, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the commandos' names weren't theirs. He confirmed that when one of the Chinese said his surname was 'Gan' but his nametag read 'Gao'.

"So, what do you think of us?" Tang asked.

"I say you're almost as good as Rainbow," Chavez replied, forgetting that 'almost' wasn't enough for these men.

"Ding, you haven't really seen us in action yet," Tang chided.

"Sure. Go ahead and take a seat," Ding offered. The men found places to sit down, and did just that.

"So…Ding, do you foresee any difficulties?" a Malay named Muhammad Imran asked.

"Hmm…tactics-wise, no. Your CQB tactics are roughly similar to ours, though there are some differences. You have to teach Rainbow how to rappel and fire accurately at the same time; we might need it.

"I haven't seen your hand-to-hand combat repertoire yet, though I heard you guys are trained in tae kwon-do, and you're all black belts."

"Sir? We're not, at least in this unit. Here, we don't even use martial arts," an Indian named Kumar clarified.

"What do you train in anyway?"

"Can't say right now, but I'll demonstrate in England," he promised.

"Okay. As for equipment…you use different weapons. In Rainbow, we use Heckler and Koch MP5/10s fitted with Brügger and Thomet sound suppressors, and Beretta Cougar 8045s."

"MP5/10s?" Wong asked, a slight glint in his eye.

"That's right. We received the last batch. HK stopped building them in 2000, though it still provides parts and services," Ding replied, noting that Wong's eyes had widened. Wong's a gun freak? Chavez wondered.

"Ding, the 10mm Auto bullet isn't for everybody, you know. I don't think we can handle it. The same goes for the .45 ACP (Automatic Colt Pistol) for the Berettas."

Ding frowned. Damn…that'll be a pain to deal with. The logistics weenies on both sides are going to get headaches…but it wasn't his problem, Ding and Wong decided at the same time.

"Chris…as for you…well, I saw four different sniper rifles, three types of carbines, two kinds of rifles…why the hell do you need so many guns?" Ding asked.

"It's like this," Wong started.

"We're a black ops unit, not just counterterrorist. For deniable operations, we use weapons that are found either in the country we're in or not used in the region. That way, we can't be traced using our weapons. Our ammunition is special; we use bullets with no lot numbers on them…call it a special order. That way, the bullets, too, cannot be traced.

"In Singapore, in countries that we train in, or in countries that specifically request for our help, we use our 'signature' weapons: the SAR-21 rifle and SAR-21 MMS (Multi-Modular System) carbine, along with our compensator-fitted Vektor SP1s. Of course, we bring along our MP5s and special equipment when necessary."

"Oh."

"Personally, though, I don't like the SAR-21 or the SAR-21 MMS," a voice called from the door.

Everybody looked up in surprise.

The speaker was an Asian, short even by Singaporean standards, standing at about 5'5½". He was dressed the same as the others, though his hair was military-regulation length. He was wearing a pair of black thin-rimmed spectacles, which made him look older than his true age. He had black eyes, but as he approached the men, they shifted to a deep brown as he entered the influence of the light within the Mess.

Like the men, he only had a nametag and rank badges sewn onto his uniform. His tag declared that he was 'Cheah K W' and he was holding the rank of a second sergeant.

But, there was…something…about him that made him stand out. No one exactly knew what it was. His uniform, his yellow skin, his black glasses, they were all…too vivid, too…_real_, if such a thing were possible.

"Who the hell are you!" everybody asked simultaneously.

"Cheah," he replied, a slight smile playing across his lips. He had an accent that sounded like a mishmash of every American, European, and Australian accent.

"I'm the…writer," he continued.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Wong asked.

"Let's see…"

Cheah reached into a trouser pocket, removing a notebook and a pen. Looking up, he stared into Wong's eyes.

"You're thinking 'who the hell's this?'" Cheah said.

Turning, he looked at Tang, and said, "You are thinking 'what the hell is going on?'"

Cheah then settled his gaze on Gao.

"You've a problem with me being here? I've been cleared by the colonel. Hell, I created him. Wait, wait, you're going to say 'The hell you say!', right?" The 'colonel' referred to the Singaporeans' CO commanding officer.

"What the…how the…" Ding started.

"I'm the writer of this story, dammit. You're all my characters. Of course I should know what you're thinking, what you're going to think, what you're going to say, and what you will do. I planned it, see, and I can change things just by writing…"

"What the—"

"Hell? Best if I demonstrate to you."

Cheah clicked the pen and turned around.

He wrote, "Chavez and the men stared incredulously at Cheah, wondering how he had managed to bypass security, or even knew about this place. By doing so, they failed to notice that a cockroach had crawled in under the door. Soon, it crawled up and onto the table where Gao was sitting at. The commando looked away, and saw the cockroach. He frowned, grabbed a nearby newspaper, rolled it up, and brought it crashing down on the cockroach. Predictably, the insect was crushed, a loud 'crack' signifying its death."

_Crack!_

The men turned around, seeing Gan with the newspaper.

"I killed a cockroach with this newspaper," he explained. Wait…newspaper? There weren't any newspapers in the Mess…

Cheah turned around, and tossed the notebook casually to Ding.

"Read it and see, Major Chavez," Cheah said with a grin.

The men gathered round, and read the words he had written. Then, they looked up with their mouths agape.

"You're—" Tang started.

"About time," Cheah said. "I know I look different from real life, but, dammit, you all should have recognised me!"

"…Gee, Cheah, we didn't know. Sorry," Wong said.

"Now, back to what I had first said," Cheah said.

"There are seven problems with the SAR-21 and its carbine form.

"The biggest one is that it cannot be used by left-handed people. It's of a bullpup design, see, and if lefties use it, empty brass will fly into their face. There's no conversion for left-handed people right now, so left handed people have to use their left eye to aim, and fire from their right shoulder. It's highly _un_natural…hell, I tried doing it once, and damned near sprained my neck. According to a left-handed soldier, it took him dozens of live-fire sessions before he could hit _one_ target.

"The next is its so-called safety. It has two safety…buttons, I guess, a little like the Thompson M1921 and its successors…though it really should be called 'Auto Ordnance'. Anyway, the safety device is at the rear end of the handguard. It can be engaged and disengaged just by pushing the protruding end. The second button is really a fire selection switch. However, the bloody thing's in the stock, so you have to take your left hand off the handguard to switch between semiautomatic and full auto. In a firefight, the delay is long enough to get you killed, especially if you're ambushed. I prefer the M16's safety: it's very instinctive and very fast.

"The third problem is with the sights. It uses a 1.5x sight that is pre-zeroed at the factory, and is one of the best sights I've ever seen. However, there are no good iron sights, just the pistol sights mounted on the 1.5x sight. I mean, for CQB, you can use the crude sights, but what if the optical sight breaks in open combat? Frankly speaking, you'll be screwed. Also, in cold weather, the sights will fog up…and the same thing will happen if you fire sixty rounds through it at full auto. An assault rifle should be able to be used in all weather conditions, not just in some.

"The fourth is its laser sight. The bloody thing can be knocked out of true just by a hard blow to the handguard. Imagine what would happen in wartime.

"The fifth problem is that it's incompatible with the M203 grenade launcher we're using. Now, a modified version called the CIS 40 has to be built so that the SAR-21 can be fitted with a grenade launcher. Hell, a laser sight is incorporated into the CIS 40, since it blocks off the original one.

"The sixth problem is with the MMS. I mean, standard issue MMS carbines come with a CCTV (closed circuit television) fitted on its accessory rail, a HWS (Holographic Weapon Sight) on top of the CCTV, a pistol grip, a bipod, and another CCTV fitted on the accessory rail below the barrel…the handguard has to be removed, Ding, in case you're wondering. It's replaced with some sort of platform built of polymer and fitted with that rail. If necessary, the bipod can be replaced with a laser. Now, that makes three or four sights that you have to zero to point of aim. That's bloody tedious. Plus, the CCTVs only work if they're connected to a wearable computer, which is connected to some sort of monitor fitted to the soldier's helmet. That adds weight, and reduces peripheral vision in CQB.

"The final problem follows. The gun is of a bullpup design, right? So is the MMS. Now, it's touted to be able to fire around corners with the CCTV equipped, right? If the corner turns to the right, you've got a problem. The ejection port is facing you, and is in your face or chest. If you pull the trigger, that's where the brass will land. And, in accordance with Murphy's Law, the brass casing may land inside your clothing, and you'll have to remove it before it burns a hole in either your or your uniform, or both. For conventional arms, the ejection port is facing your arm or the wall, so it's not so bad."

"Precisely!" Wong exclaimed from his seat. "That's why we don't use the SAR-21 or the MMS unless necessary. I'd rather stick with our M4A1s. Besides, you forgot one more thing. The charging handle of the SAR-21 is not what I consider ideal. It's folded under the sight. To cock the rifle, you have to flip the handle out before you can use it. The M16 series have charging handles that can be accessed immediately, and is ambidextrous to boot, so it does not waste more time than necessary," Wong continued.

"The M4s aren't as reliable as the SAR-21, you know," Cheah countered, "and reliability is everything in battle. If a gun is unreliable, it's no good."

"Yeah, well, if you take good care of it, it can be very reliable in combat."

"…Well, you're the operator, L—I mean, Wong. By the way…I suggest you guys practise shooting while abseiling with your carbines, especially from a helicopter."

"Why?" Tang asked.

Cheah answered the men with only a slight smile. Then, he turned around and walked to the door.

"Where're you going?" Ding asked.

"I've got a job to do. I'll see you in Hereford," Cheah replied.

Cheah opened the door, stepped outside, and disappeared, leaving the commandos in their thoughts.

Author's note: Once upon a time, this used to be a military guide. However, I was forced to do this since it was taken down. I don't like inserting my own ideas or myself into my stories, but…needs must, when the devil drives. No alcohol is allowed in Army Messes or cookhouses in Singapore (only in the canteen, only cans of beer, and at your own expense), so nobody's drinking. Abseiling' means 'rappelling' in American English. The complaints about the SAR-21 and the MMS are my opinions, based on my so-called experience with it as well as the opinions of some gun writers. When I asked, the engineers who designed the CCTV for the MMS didn't know what MMS stand for, but thought it was 'Multi-Modular System'. Don't expect this story to be updated on a regular or even irregular basis; I'm going to be very busy in 2005. Finally…are there any professional writers reading this, y'know, writers who have published stories in print? I've a question…it's nothing to do with partnership, I assure you.

Disclaimer: SINGAPORE DOES NOT, TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE, MAINTAIN A BLACK OPERATIONS UNIT. The closest we have is our 'Special Operations Force', a little like America's SEALs and Britain's 22 Special Air Service Regiment…the best of the best. Singapore's SOF is also about as secret as the above units: it is acknowledged to exist, but little more is known about them.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Reciprocity 

The Green Dragon

Hereford, England

The Green Dragon was the pub of choice for SAS operators, and Team Rainbow as a result. It was 2130, after the day's training was over. The pub was fairly crowded, with SAS troopers and Rainbow personnel mingling and chatting over many a pint of warm English beer, though the Americans in Rainbow preferred theirs chilled beforehand.

The day was over, Wong having witnessed Team Rainbow's training for a day. Now, it was his turn to comment on it.

Ding Chavez, John Clark, and Christopher Wong were having a quiet pint in a corner, the last having his back against the wall to prevent eavesdroppers from listening in unobserved. This time, the soldiers were dressed in standard British Army fatigues, the better to mix in with the others, while the suit was dressed in precisely that; a suit, much to his discomfort. The Singaporean was doing his level best to pretend that he was used to the cold, and failed at that.

"So, Chris, any comments?" Ding asked.

"I'm bloody freezing," Wong answered, shivering as he did so.

"Why's that?"

"Local air temperature's roughly 10 degrees Celsius…about 50 or so degrees Fahrenheit. I'm more used to Singapore's climate, roughly twenty-nine degrees Celsius."

Chavez thought about it. If he felt that Singapore was hot, then Wong had to be cold over here. After all, Singapore was his home; he was more used to the warmer conditions there than in foggy England.

"I don't blame you. There isn't a noonday sun," Clark said.

"There's a sun here?"

That earned a brief chuckle from the men. Wong took a brief swig from his beer mug. He decided that a man can get used to such alcohol…but Wong didn't drink unless absolutely necessary. It probably was the weather, he decided, taking another sip.

"Anything to say about our SOP?" Chavez probed.

"Well…" Wong replied, "first of all, I have to say that your guys are superb. They're on par with the Delta Force and DEVGRU guys we trained with in our unit's initial days."

Clark saw the head of his diminutive son-in-law swell up. _Ego is a Latino thing, John_, he thought to himself for the hundredth time, _and no amount of training can correct that._

"As for command and control…well, they're very well coordinated. You operate in teams of eight, with two snipers, right? They're highly professional at their job."

"Don't mean to interrupt, but you guys work in teams of five, right? I thought you operate in squads of eight men?" Ding interjected.

"Y'see, our CO read this study published by the US Marine Corps (he pronounced it as 'core', the proper way, unlike his compatriots). It was about command and control in urban environments. In summary, it stated that five men were optimal for close quarters battle."

"Okay, but don't you have snipers?"

"We do. The third man is. All of our snipers are trained in both sniping and CQB. They participate in actual assaults when they're not needed. We learnt this from the HRT (Hostage Rescue Team), but we don't charge in with twelve or eleven men."

"So, you train in five- and four-man room clearing?"

"Just four- and two-man clearing. The rearguard covers our back if there're five in one team."

"Right. What if you need more men?" Chavez asked, remembering Worldpark.

"We analyse the situation in HQ. If we need more men, then we deploy more teams. We can send up to a total of twenty men anywhere in Asia."

"Okay…hell, it's just like us, but we operate globally."

A grimace. "I would prefer more men, but twenty men suddenly disappearing from the SOF and the commandos is kind of weird, much less forty or so."

"SOF?"

"Special Operations Force. Our equivalent of the American Delta Force and British Counterrevolutionary Warfare (CRW) wing of the SAS. Mind you, the SOF consists of the best and brightest soldiers in the commandos, who are themselves the best men in the SAF."

"Were you transferred to your unit?"

"No. There were forty men who applied for the selection course. Four months later, half remained. I was in that twenty."

"Okay…now, back to the topic at hand. What can you tell us about our tactics?"

"I don't see why you attach suppressors to your SMGs (submachine guns) before entry, if you're going to blow the door down. I mean, in Singapore, if we use EMOE, we don't bother with such things. The blast is enough to nullify what advantage the suppressors provide."

"Yeah, but all the bad guys know is that we're in the place. They won't be able to place our positions by our gunfire."

"Still, the way you guys do dynamic takedowns, there's no need for suppressors at all if you're using EMOE. Furthermore, if you use EMOE too early or in the wrong place in hostage rescue, the terrorists would kill the hostage.

"I mean, in Singapore, if we use EMOE, we don't bother with suppressed weaponry, since we use the latter when we don't want the bad guys to know that we're in place until it's too late. When we do use our MP5SDs, we pick locks on doors instead of blowing them down."

"You train guys to pick locks?"

"No, we have electronic lock picks that do that for us."

"Really? How much do they cost?" Clark asked; playing the accountant he had to be.

"Not very much. We'll take them along next week."

"Hmm…" Ding mused. The lock picks might provide a tangible advantage, especially if Rainbow had to perform a stealthy hostage rescue. Hell, the incident in that childcare centre in the Netherlands needed stealth had Doctor Bellow failed to talk the terrorists into surrendering. The Tangos had barricaded themselves into a single room. If Paddy had destroyed the (locked) door leading to the centre, the terrorists would have shot the hostages, and things would have gone ratshit.

"Also, the radios you guys use… Where did you buy them from?" Wong asked.

"E-Systems. Why?" Clark replied.

"Well…right now, we're using Motorola Sabers and Peltor Sound Traps, the former for radio comms and the latter as ear protection. Your radios help improve C & C and have built-in ear protection to boot. We'll probably need them."

"Those radios are fairly new themselves. They're replacements for our previous ones. E-Systems might be willing to let you purchase some."

"Y'know, Wong, your men received new radios yesterday, after your flight left. These radios have digital ear protection, 256-bit encryption with rotating keys, and they can automatically amplify soft noises and shut off loud sound, like your Peltor Sound Traps," a voice remarked from behind the Americans.

The men spun around, amazed that the speaker had evaded detection.

On first glance, the owner of the voice appeared to be a short soldier with Asian roots, about roughly 5'5½". He was dressed in standard British fatigues, temperate forest camouflage pattern, with the chevrons and rockers of a second sergeant. His eyes were black, but as he approached the men, they turned a very deep, dark brown as the light struck them. And he was wearing contact lenses.

The men looked at his nametag, then the notepad in his left hand, and finally the pen in his right. Then, they noticed that all the colours on he were more vivid than anything around them.

"Hello, Sergeant Cheah," Wong greeted. "Why are you allowed here?"

"I own this place. And I'm no sergeant." Not exactly true, but true enough.

"Where're your glasses?" Ding asked.

"This is an avatar, dammit. I am allowed to wear contacts, right?"

"Self-induced short-sightedness is bad," Wong answered, hailing from the myopia capital of the world, but with perfect vision.

"I didn't give myself myopia; my genes did. Hell, it's pretty mild considering: less than negative two hundred degrees. But enough about that."

Clark raised an eyebrow. The writer's nametag had 'CHEAH' on it, and just that. The other SAS and Rainbow troopers didn't see him, as though he were…invisible.

"Can't the others see you, Cheah?" Clark asked.

The writer clucked his tongue, raised his notepad, and scribbled something into it.

"Eddie!" Chavez greeted, seeing his second-in-command appear behind the writer.

_Wait…wasn't he in the office doing admin…? _Chavez wondered. _What the hell…!_

"Hello Ding, good evening sir," Sergeant-Major Edward Price greeted.

"Who's he?" Price continued, indicating the writer.

"I'm Cheah, the writer of this story," Cheah replied.

"Oh…sorry, didn't recognise you. Your accent…where's it from? Are you British, or a New Zealander?" the Brit asked, looking down at the shorter and younger…well, not quite a soldier.

"I don't know, and I don't care about my accent. And why the hell does everybody think I'm from Britain, America, New Zealand…shit, it's not as if it's that unnatural or anything!" Cheah replied angrily, almost but not quite screaming. Nobody around him heard what he said.

"Sorry. Hey…your hair…it's…."

Price examined Cheah's hair from all angles; much to the latter's exasperation.

"Enough already," Cheah ordered.

"Okay. But seriously…your hair's four-toned."

"Don't I know it?"

On first inspection, the writer's hair was black. However, when viewed under certain lighting conditions and angles, some of it transformed into a deep brown, parts of it turned chestnut brown, and others became mahogany. There was even a pair of golden-copper strands. The parts that were black also reflected light so well at certain angles that they turned white or silvery.

"I don't like it too; makes me stand out too much. Blame my genes," Cheah grumbled. "But enough about me."

"Right… Want a drink?" Price asked in jest.

"I'm too young, thank you. Anyways, Captain Wong, the rest of your men received those radios yesterday. There're prototypes from E-Systems, as I recall. Apparently, someone decided to let you guys field test them instead."

"The hell? I thought we were black?" Wong muttered under his breath. Chavez gulped down some more beer, his ears open. Clark briefly reverted to his spook training, pretending not to listen. Price walked off to order a beer.

"Yep. The builders thought that the SAF commandos would receive them, not you guys."

"Oh. How did we…?"

"Captain, there are many, many things in life people can't explain."

That earned a raised eyebrow from the commando.

"I'm serious, Wong," Cheah replied, a wry smile playing across his lips.

"Right… You know, it's a shame that ST Kinetics can't produce a decent gun, and DSTA (Defence Science and Technology Agency, the main developers of Singaporean military technology) can't produce something like this radio."

Clark drank some more alcohol. It was pretty good…but the conversation was even better, he decided.

"Yeah. So much for _kiasu_-ism. For you Westerners, it's defined as being afraid to lose out on anything in Hokkien…a Chinese dialect."

"What do you mean?" Clark asked, finally.

Cheah explained the SAR-21 and its shortcomings to the men as Price returned. When he was done, the writer elected to stand.

"So, Chris, apart from entry tactics, what do you think of us?" Chavez asked.

"Hmm…the HK MP5/10s you use have more recoil than what I've come to expect, but the suppressors you guys mount on them reduce muzzle climb. I'm not really comfortable with the 10mm Auto the weapon fires though; I'll stick to 9mm, thank you," Wong answered.

"The 10mm creates a bigger hole, and has more punch," Cheah said.

"And has a hell of a lot more recoil. We use the MP5 because it's damn near recoilless in single-shot or burst mode, in addition to its reliability and accuracy," Wong retorted.

"You're the shooter."

"The same goes for the Berettas Rainbow uses. I'm not comfortable with the .45 ACP round."

That explained why he missed thrice at the range when invited to test the guns. His first two shots went into the lower jaw and upper head of his target respectively instead of between the eyes. The last was off target by maybe a fraction of an inch. After getting used to the sights and recoil, Wong placed every shot perfectly, though…almost like Ettore Falcone, in fact, Chavez mused.

_Wonder who'll win…Big Bird or Wong…?_ he thought.

"Really…? Well, I'm not surprised. The Vektors you use reduce recoil considerably, what with their compensators."

"Yeah. In case you're wondering, the SP1s we use are the military variant; the sporting ones have built-in compensators of a different design. The compensators were fitted on our pistols simply because they reduce recoil, which in turn leads to faster follow-up shots."

"They're pretty heavy for pistols though," Cheah commented.

"How heavy?" Price wondered out loud.

"The standard Browning High Power the SAS issues weighs about 930 grams, right? The 8045s weigh about 950 grams. The Vektor, on the other hand, weighs a little over a kilogram, when loaded and fitted with a compensator," the writer replied.

"You know this sort of stuff?" Price asked, bemused. Then, he took a sip of his drink.

"Hey, I do research, you know. I can't say the same for the other Singaporean writers I know…and some Western ones as well."

"Like?"

"I'll be sued if I tell you. By the way, Wong…I think you should compete against Falcone one of these days."

"Falcone…Ettore Falcone? Not a chance of winning, Cheah."

_Yeah, right_, a little part of Wong's brain commented. Price took a long pull on his mug, reading Wong's mind. Chavez smirked a little.

"With the 8045s, or with your SP1s? Go ahead; give it a shot."

"What? Is Chris here supposed to be the best pistol shot in his unit?" Chavez asked.

"Yep," Cheah replied, deadpan.

Another Rainbow trooper wandered upon the conversation before Wong could comment. Whether at Cheah's behest or not was something only he knew. In this case, it was Homer Johnston, a mug of beer in hand.

"Hey Ding," Johnston said in greeting, before moving on to the rest, and finally…

"Who're you?" the sniper asked of the cadet.

"…"

Cheah didn't bother with a reply this time. He just stared at the American.

"Hey, you're Cheah, aren't you? What's your full name?" Johnston enquired.

"…Leounheort (le-own-he-ort) Cheah, King of the World."

"Bullshit."

"Quite," the cadet sergeant replied.

All of the men shared a brief chuckle.

"Really, though, what is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

Cheah thought for a second, then recited, "No man may sleep! No man may sleep! Not even you, O princess, in your chaste room, watching the stars above which tremble with love and hope! My secret lies within me; no one shall discover my name!"

"…Where did you get that poem from?" Wong asked.

"Hell if I know. Read it somewhere, but the title wasn't given."

"Where's that 'somewhere'?"

"'Counterstrike' by Sean Flannery, also known as David Hagberg. By the way, Johnston, you use a Remington 700 or something like that, chambered for the 7mm Remington Magnum round, right?"

"Close enough."

"Hmm…" Wong uttered, having another mouthful of English beer.

"What is it?" Clark asked.

"My guys use four different types of sniper rifles, in 7.62x51mm NATO, also called .308 Winchester. Not as powerful as the 7mm, but more common and cheaper…and less of a headache for Logistics."

"Why can't you use different weapons?" the American sniper asked.

"For the simple reason that we do not have the right to bear arms, so we don't know much about guns…if we know something in the first place. Hell, it's difficult enough to get reference material in Singapore in the first place. Finally, the sniper rifles we can use were restricted to just four, courtesy of MINDEF. Anyway, in case you're wondering, our firearms laws are draconian: possession of a gun equals a life sentence, and discharging one with criminal intent means an immediate death sentence."

"Why the harsh penalties?"

"Once upon a time, during the 1950s-1960s, we had many gangs in Singapore. They all had pistols, shotguns, SMGs and what-have-you. These were all smuggled in from China, Thailand, and Malaya. Gunfights were very common then. Eventually, some people got fed up and introduced these laws to deter people from carrying guns."

"Oh. It's worse in America. I hear that people can purchase antitank weaponry if you know who ask."

"'Whom'."

"Whatever."

"Anyways, Wong, what do you think we can learn from us?" Chavez asked.

"Shooting and CQB, of course. Maybe long-range sniping, but I doubt we need that. Also, standard abseiling and all that."

"Abseiling?"

"Rappelling in Singapore and Britain. I suspect you'll also call it fast-rope deployment."

"Hmm…what can you teach us?"

"Unarmed combat, that shooting while abseiling trick, alternative ways of making entry, and that's for starters. We'll bring our own kit along, namely MP5A5s, Vektor SP1s, Franchi PA3/215 shotguns, maybe even Mossberg 500 shotguns, fitted with Cruiser pistol grips. If needs be, maybe our M4A1s as well. All this plus standard CQB gear, radios…the whole nine yards." Just by mentioning that, Wong's head started to throb as he thought of all the gear they had to carry. And it wasn't nearly enough.

"Why the hell do you need to bring so many guns?" Chavez wondered.

"They get the job done," Cheah replied for his countryman.

Author's Note: The radios mentioned probably don't exist, except maybe in conceptual form somewhere far, far away from Singapore. The part about why the SAF chose the MP5 (to replace the Uzi) is true, according to a commando at the 2004 Army Open House, except reliability. The last was not even mentioned…sigh. I've fired live simunition through an MP5A5 before, again at the open house, and the felt recoil is very, very mild, hence 'Wong's' remark about it being recoilless, which was also taken from that commando. Then again, simunition is not the same as real bullets. The part on Singapore gun laws is true, and so is the history behind it. The remark about purchasing antitank weaponry is based on fact: a Los Angeles gang member almost purchased a LAW (Light Antitank Weapon) in the early 1990s. Nobody (maybe not even the commandos themselves) knows what kind of weapons the commandos use apart from the brand name, so I had to ID the guns myself based on photographs and personal inspection. I don't know if the shotguns mentioned are correctly identified, though. Finally, my 'O' level examinations are near the end of this year, and the Preliminary papers are in August. Which means I have to study like all hell for them. I won't have the time to update this story regularly, unfortunately. As always, please be patient.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Trivial Affair 

"What!" Ding exclaimed.

"That's right, Ding. We run, on average, ten kilometres a day, then maybe another five or so kilometres on our own. On other days, we extend the distance to twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty km with a full haversack," Chris patiently repeated for the thousandth time.

"Damn."

So that's why the Singaporeans were still fresh at the end of this morning's 5-mile run…and complained that they had expected more from Rainbow. After that, they proceeded to run roughly ten more miles. Rainbow, of course, ran with them in the spirit of competitiveness. The end result: thirty hot, sweaty, tired, but happy men. For the first time in a very long time, Ding remembered what it was like to pant.

"By the way, have you seen the Malays (much to Wong's exasperation, he pronounced it 'MAY-lay' instead of 'MEH-lay')? Ali and Imran?"

"Ding, this is a _pub_," Chris replied, somewhat exasperated. "They're Muslims. No alcohol. Remember? Besides, they have evening prayers now. They're in their bunks."

"Oh…"

The Singaporeans had arrived in England via civilian aircraft. Their weapons and equipment were flown over by a C-130. Before their visitors had arrived, Rainbow had scrambled to locate extra accommodations after realising that their barracks were too small for the Singaporeans. They managed to 'borrow' a spare barracks from the Special Air Service after a lot of haggling and sweating blood. It wasn't because the SAS guys didn't want to lend it to Rainbow; it was because the bullshit-crats in charge of the SAS (and Rainbow as a result) wanted to know why _they_ (Rainbow) wanted to borrow a barracks from _them_ (SAS) when _they_ (Rainbow) already had enough for everyone. Rainbow Six was eventually forced to step in, and he smote the bureaucrats' whining fairly quickly. The fact that he and his team saved the free world twice helped.

"Hey Chris," Mike Pierce called from behind him, a mug of beer in his hand.

"Yes?"

"How the hell do you guys manage to aim and shoot your MP5A5s with one hand?"

The Singaporeans had put up another performance, again of themselves abseiling down a helicopter and firing their SMGs at dummies. The exercise had to be held in an open field in the English countryside, since the powers that be insisted that no live rounds may be fired in the camp except for live-fire practice at a properly designated spot (read: shooting range). The fact that the SpecOps team were real shooters, that there were areas where such a thing can be conducted, and that the only alternative was too close to civilians homes for comfort didn't mean a whit to the bureaucracy in charge of Rainbow.

"Well…practice."

"And the fancy electronic sights."

"And that."

The ITL MARS sights fitted on all of the black ops team's shoulder arms helped considerably. These reflex sights were used to project a red dot in the middle of a glass block as an aiming aid in CQB. The dot moves around the glass screen as the operator travels, accounting for the effects on bullet trajectory by the shooter's movement.

"Where'd you get the money to buy them?" Pierce asked.

"Hell if I know. Why?"

He knew the real reason. And he couldn't tell anyone.

"Well, I've discovered that aiming the conventional way—getting sight picture and so on—is much slower than with the reflex sights. We'll gain a full half-second or so in target acquisition with them, and every moment counts in CQB."

What he didn't say was that he only found that out when Rainbow and the SpecOps unit went to the live-fire range. As it turned out, while both units had almost the same performance in terms of accuracy, Singapore had an edge in speed. And Wong's men hadn't forgotten how to shoot with conventional sights either; their score using the front sight/rear sight cum muscle memory technique was just as good as Rainbow's.

"True."

"Maybe we should get them, eh Ding?"

"Well…" Chavez started, wondering what his father-in-law would say.

"They're not really expensive, Ding, but they run off AA batteries. Me, I'd pick Aimpoint's Comp M2 or ML2 if not for the fact that the MARS reflex sight comes with a built-in IR (infrared) laser aiming device, and backup sights. And only the SAF version has that…well, maybe without the backup sights," a man replied from behind him, his voice a blend of Scotland and Ireland.

"What the hell?" the SpecOps troops shouted into their beers.

"Am I really that quiet?" Cheah asked from his place, seeing the men whip around.

The writer was standing quietly behind the operatives, dressed in base fatigues. On his sleeves were the stripes of a first sergeant: three bows and two chevrons. His black/brown eyes became a deep black, influenced by the colour of the uniform. A notepad and pen were clutched in his hands.

"And who promoted you to first sergeant?" the Singaporean captain asked, looking at the writer's sleeves.

"I didn't know about that until fairly recently," he admitted, his tone becoming more British.

"Right…Cheah, is it true that SAF commandos run up to fifty kilometres for morning PT?"

"Yeah. At least, that was what my source told me."

"Who's he?" Price asked, walking up to the Rainbow troops.

"A former commando…but he left the army in the late '70s, so…"

Chris rolled his eyes.

"It's not my fault or anything. MINDEF isn't being too cooperative here."

"Yah (pronounced 'y-AH', meaning 'yeah'), sure," Steve Gao replied, appearing behind and between Pierce and Price. Both Rainbow troopers jumped involuntarily. Cheah didn't react, as though he was used to people creeping up on him, Chavez thought. Or…

"Steve…I felt your eyes on me," Cheah told Gao, without turning his head.

"Damn. How can you feel a person's eyes?"

"I don't know…almost every person is born with a natural animal instinct, almost psychic in nature. Most people can literally feel the weight of a person's gaze, even if they don't know they're being watched. In a covert operation, when you need stealth, never look at your target directly, especially if you're close to him. Observe him through your peripheral vision until you strike."

"How do you do that?" Wong asked.

"Practice."

Chavez almost snorted into his drink.

"Just like your fighting technique, Gao. You need work in that. Practice, and it will flow naturally," Cheah continued.

"Don't I know it?" the short trooper replied.

The Rainbow troopers kept their ears open. The only thing they lacked in their training was an effective hand-to-hand combat technique in close quarters. They only trained to kill people with guns, not defeat them with bare hands or when unarmed.

"What's your fighting technique made of?" Price asked.

"Well…it's a combination of the most effective techniques of martial arts and fighting styles around the world. Boxing, judo, tae-kwon do, karate, the Fairbairn-Applegate-Styers school of thought, just to name a few. Add in the Offensive Mindset from a…a certain American fighting technique and you get it. I'm guessing that there are some more moves in there from martial arts that I haven't named yet."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Pierce wondered.

"…Never mind."

"How effective is it?" Chavez asked.

"I'd like to think that it's the most efficient close quarters fighting technique yet developed, incorporating both lethal and non-lethal attacks for various situations. The operator can switch between the two on the fly, in case an escalation or de-escalation of threat response in needed. He does not rely on muscle memory, he does not memorise certain attack combinations; once he knows and can pull off an attack, he does not bother incorporating it into his muscle memory. Any combinations he uses are his personal preferences, but can be interrupted and replaced with another. That way, the attacks can be modified instantly to suit a flowing combat situation. "

"Is it combat-proven?"

"…You know I can't answer that."

"Hey, you!" a SAS trooper called.

Cheah turned to his right, subtly tensing up.

"Yes?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

The middle-aged man in front of him was armed with nothing more deadly than an empty mug…not that it wasn't dangerous. Still, he was formidable enough, standing at an even 6" and packed with powerful muscles. He positively reeked of alcohol.

There was nobody else sitting at his table. Two empty bottles of whatever liquid stood atop the table's wooden surface, spewing foam from their mouths. Cheah surmised that the soldier was drunk.

"You! You're the bastard O'Donnell, aren't you?" the soldier demanded, his voice slurred with alcohol.

"No. The name's Cheah," the writer/cadet/fighter coldly replied, stepping forward so that he was now leading with his left leg. He calmly kept his eyes on the trooper's collarbone, watching for sudden movements.

The trooper brought his mug back, and prepared to swing it forward, roaring, "Bullshit! I know that voice anywhere, you IRA mot—"

He had no time to finish his sentence. Cheah sprang into action, lunging forward in a boxing-style falling step, bringing his hands up and rolling them into organic bricks. As the mug came down, the writer swiftly sidestepped to the drunk's left, and snapped out a sweeping left back leg strike that hooked around the soldier's ankle and tripped him backwards, arms flailing.

Reversing his momentum, Cheah spun forward, placing an outstretched palm on the unbalanced soldier's abdomen and turned to his right. The soldier followed the turn, landing on his back at Cheah's boots, perpendicular to him.

The Singaporean sidestepped around him, stopping behind his head. The Briton picked himself up, and Cheah grabbed him in a sleeper hold. Cheah took several steps backwards, ensuring that the SAS trooper's feet were no longer planted firmly on the ground, all the while applying pressure to the soldier's throat.

Half a minute later, he blacked out, and went limp. The fighter laid him gently on the ground. He looked up in time to see a pair of SAS men approaching him.

"Relax mate," the closer one said. "He's just had too much to drink, and his experience in Northern Ireland in the '80s hadn't helped him at all."

"Aye. Stupid git shoulda seen a shrink. You didn't kill him, right?" the other asked.

"No…" was Cheah's reply.

"What the hell was that? Some kind of judo?" Pierce asked.

"No," he answered, his voice and eyes as cold as dry ice, but starting to warm up.

"What is it?"

"That technique we were discussing," Wong replied.

Author's Note: Yes, I know that this chapter's short, but I want to get this out of the way ASAP before touching on the operations side of Special Forces. Most of what I wrote here, including the part about PT, is true. The hand-to-hand combat technique does exist, and yes, I'm the so-called founder of it. The F-A-S school does (at least it did) exist, according to my research. It was originally established to train commandos in hand-to-hand combat. The 'American fighting technique' has been taught to certain US military personnel who have attended the course. It's been declassified officially, but… My technique can't be named due to operational security. Plus, it's not even protected by law, so… Anyway, this year is going to be ultra hectic, so I guess you can't count on a regular update schedule. Oh, and no insult was intended to the SAS.


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Note 1: For the next two chapters, two asterisks '--' in the middle of the page means a shift from the 'present' to a flashback and vice versa. And, for the sake of OPSEC, I've deliberately blurred some aspects of CQB, and not expand on certain acronyms.

Chapter 3: A Few Good Men

In the dimly lit interior of the Green Dragon, the men of Rainbow and their Singaporean counterparts gathered in a corner. Every one of them had a mug of beer either in his hand or on the table, save for the two Muslims, who opted for a glass of milk and a cup of tea instead. The Special Air Service troopers in the pub left them mostly alone, shooting the occasional glance their way.

Steve Gao was sitting next to Domingo Chavez, Chris Wong, and Edward Price. Taking a sip from his mug, he turned to Chavez.

"So…what did you think of the weapons?"

In the course of two months, both the NATO and Singaporean troopers trained with each other, learned from each other, used each other's tactics and gear…and fired each other's weapons.

"Well…the G36C was fun," Chavez recalled. "The carbine, SMG, whatever you call it, is kind of comfortable to shoot, if one ignores the muzzle blast. I'm guessing the ones you use are the updated editions…the ones which HK modified to solve the overheating issue?"

"Yes," Wong affirmed, nodding his head.

The door to the Green Dragon opened. A relatively short Chinese soldier stepped in, brushing some dirt off his somewhat narrow_er_ shoulders. His uniform was as perfect as could be, properly pressed and starched in all the right areas, his boots spit-shined until they reflected the lights above. He walked towards the Rainbow men, properly digging his boots into the floor, like he was trained to do.

"…It's accurate, reliable…hell, just what we need in close quarters battle, if we need rifle-caliber weapons. I mean, more and more terrorists these days are equipping themselves with body armor…and our 10mm Auto bullets can't penetrate them."

The soldier made an abrupt turn, heading for the bartender. The man cocked his eyebrow when he beheld the…_child_…in front of him.

"I just look young for my age. I'm twenty-three, but I've very smooth skin," the soldier said, pre-empting the bartender. "Besides, I don't have to be of legal age to ask for water, right?"

He didn't say that he looked _old _for his age, not young.

"Water?" the bartender repeated.

"Water. Warm, preferably."

The surprised man turned around, grabbed a mug, and walked over to a nearby sink. He filled the mug with tap water and passed it to the soldier.

"Thank you. How much?"

"…Free of charge, as far as I'm concerned," the bartender answered with a slight smile.

"Thank you."

Heading towards the NATO-Singaporean soldiers, he overheard Wong saying, "Yeah, that's why we use them. Besides…based on our work…we need deniable weapons, and no country in the region uses G36Cs."

"Oh?" Chavez wondered.

"Yeah. M4s are common…but only to a certain extent. Besides, they're too long for some situations, like extreme close quarters battle."

"Hmm…well, I reckoned we would have made use of them some time ago," Price commented. Several Rainbow troopers murmured in agreement.

"When?" Wong asked.

"Six months ago…the failed hostage-taking in Paris."

"You did the takedown?" the Singaporean 2IC, Dan Lee, asked, from an adjoining table

"Yeah," Rainbow Six confirmed. "That was us."

"That's good. I read about it in the news. The takedown was beautiful…though there were losses. Care to tell us about it?" Wong asked.

"Please do," a voice seconded, from behind Chavez.

Chavez spun around.

"What the hell—"

"Major…try listening to the environment next time," Cheah said, innocently.

'Major' Chavez scanned the cadet, taking in the perfection of his uniform…and the mug in his right hand, containing…_water?_

"Gee, Major, I'm allergic to so many things that I reckon I'm allergic to beer too," Cheah cheerfully said, taking a swig. The rest of Rainbow and the other Singaporean soldiers just stared at him from their places.

"…I see…" Chavez said.

_He's a writer, isn't he? Maybe he can explain this…_

"Cheah, is it just me, or does everything look more…vivid…more real?" Chavez asked.

"It's me. I wrote you into existence for this story, remember?" Cheah replied, with a slight frown. "Hell, I created everything that you're looking at. I just wanted to experiment a little, and here's the end result."

Lee rolled his eyes.

"What, Lee? Isn't it nice that you now have some sort of emotions?" Cheah queried with a grin, the kind associated with darkness, death, and evil.

"What you talking?" Gao remarked.

"The hell?" Vega asked.

"He means, 'what are you talking about?'" Cheah answered. "Basically, I'm improving my writing style. Period. End."

"Oh…"

"…Cheah, you want to listen?" Chavez asked.

"I know the story, remember? This story's for Wong and company."

"Oh. …Why don't you sit down?"

Cheah looked around.

Around him, the men of Rainbow had arranged the wooden tables in a rough semicircle, and were sitting at them in crudely fashioned (but still sturdy) wooden chairs. The SpecOps men, relaxed and eager, turned to look at the writer, who was searching for a chair. There were none. Looking around, Cheah saw that the other tables were fully occupied, and that every chair was taken.

"…Want I should get a chair?" a Rainbow shooter offered.

"No, thanks. Hold on," Cheah replied, reaching into his pockets. He extracted a notepad and a pen, flipped the pad open, and started to write in a cursive, eloquent script that flowed across the length of the page.

"What are you doing?" Ettore Falcone asked, facing the writer.

Cheah looked up, then said, "Look around."

Falcone looked around.

Around him, the men of Rainbow had arranged the wooden tables in a rough semicircle, and were sitting at them in crudely fashioned (but still sturdy) wooden chairs. The SpecOps men, relaxed and eager, turned to look at the writer, who pocketed the tools of his trade. And promptly sat down on a chair that had appeared directly behind him, as though—

"I'm a writer. I can shape this world," Cheah answered, reading Falcone's mind.

"You never cease to amaze me," Wong admitted.

"Yeah, well…Chavez? You going to start?" Cheah asked, changing the subject.

"All right," he sighed, standing up. He walked towards the middle of the gap formed by the semicircle, and addressed his audience.

"Six months ago, a group of terrorists…"

--

Chavez entered the Watch Room, followed by Price.

"You called, Mr. C?" Chavez asked, facing his father-in-law cum CO.

"Yes Ding," Alistair Stanley answered for his boss. "We've got a situation in Paris that we might have to attend to."

The Watch Room wasn't impressive. A bank of television sets were mounted on one end of the room, tuned to various all-news channels to keep an eye on any situations. Several telephones were set on a small wooden desk for international and local calls. A security camera was mounted at a corner, overseeing the operation. There was one other man in the room: Bill Tawney. And that was all.

"What's happening?" Chavez asked.

Clark gestured at a TV screen.

"CNN is reporting a hostage crisis in Paris. About an hour ago, a group of terrorists from the World Islamic Front, a relatively obscure terrorist group with links to al-Qaeda, attacked the American ambassador, George Haynes, while on his way to meet with the French Foreign Ministry.

"They stopped his car with hand grenades, then had a firefight with his bodyguards. All of the bodyguards were killed, along with two terrorists…and some bystanders."

"Shit," Chavez muttered.

"The GIGN arrived at the scene shortly after the terrorists grabbed Haynes. After a running gunfight, the terrorists have fled to an apartment block in downtown Paris. The local police have the situation contained, and things are calming down.

"The Tangos are demanding ten million dollars, a bus to the airport, and an aircraft to flee the country within six hours, or they'll start executing hostages. In addition to the ambassador, they claim to hold at least eight other innocents, among them a lawyer and a judge.

"So…what's Washington doing?" Chavez asked.

"President Kealty doesn't want the French to send in the GIGN," Tawney said. "Something about politics. His counterpart insists that there's not enough time to assemble an American SpecOps team, fly them to Paris, and get them to resolve the situation in time. I've suggested sending in Rainbow to Director Dan Murray of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he's briefed Kealty about it. I think Kealty is informing the French now. They should come to a decision right about now…"

A telephone rang. Tawney covered the distance to it in three quick strides and picked it up.

"Tawney here. …I see. Yes, okay. Good. Thank you," he muttered, and hung up.

"That was from 10 Downing Street. Washington, Paris, and London have agreed to send in Rainbow to deal with the situation. Chavez, Price, alert your men."

"Got it," Chavez replied, heading for the door.

--

"Er, mind if I ask a stupid question?" Gao asked.

"Yes?" Chavez enquired from his place.

"Why can't the French handle it? I mean, the French Foreign Legion, the GIGN or whatever can handle the terrorists."

"Politics, that's all. Kealty wanted Americans to handle it. And the French President wants as little American involvement as possible, though what he said made some sense. They compromised with us."

"Damned politicians," Chavez spat. "Hell, Mr. C's going to retire in a couple of months, and—"

"Ding. Please," Clark said, feeling his sixty-plus years of age.

"All right, all right. Back to the story. We flew into Paris within three hours, and…"

--

Team-2 arrived at the site in a pair of black-painted nondescript vans, courtesy of the gendarmes assigned to chaperone them from the airport. Dressed in coal-black fatigues and balaclavas, their identities were masked well enough to deceive the media into thinking that they were reinforcements for the cops manning the perimeter security. 

Chavez assessed the situation at an oblique angle to the building.

The local police cordoned off the apartment block in question. The GIGN had established roadblocks all around the area, preventing anyone from entering or leaving their zone of control, or the no-man's land that was the area directly surrounding the apartment block.

The building was pretty nice, he decided, taking the time to appreciate the European architecture style. The architect had designed the neighborhood along the lines of 19th century France, yet had made concessions to modernity in cleverly disguised forms: electric lights were disguised as gas lamps, and the concrete used to build the local structures had been painted and cast to look like stone or brick.

But, there was no time to appreciate its beauty. Chavez focused on tactical realities. The apartment block was ten stories in height, with a front and rear entrance. The windows overlooking the street were currently curtained off, preventing sniper/observers from looking inside. Strangely enough, there were no exterior guards.

While Chavez gave the building a quick once-over, the local GIGN commander approached him. The Frenchman saluted the American, greeting in fluent English, "Major Chavez? I am Colonel Francois St. Jacques, at your service."

Returning the salute, Chavez immediately asked, "What's the situation like?"

"Not good," St. Jacques admitted. "I have placed teams of snipers in the buildings surrounding the target site. They can see nothing. My negotiators are just about ready to give up; the terrorists do not want to talk any more than absolutely necessary. My assault teams are in place…but my superiors have forbidden them from doing anything. They are currently manning the roadblocks."

"Any ID on the opposition?"

"Nothing. We do not have a voiceprint of the terrorist who answers the telephone, and all of them are wearing ski masks…in addition to their other gear."

"What do they have?"

St. Jacques grimaced. "AKS-74Us, or so my weapons expert has told me. Since they have used grenades in the attack on the ambassador, we'll have to assume they have grenades, too. Also, they are wearing helmets and body armor."

"What the hell…"

Powerful as it was, the 10mm Auto bullet Rainbow's MP5/10s fired didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of penetrating modern body armor. Torso shots were out of the question, naturally, and headshots would be chancy at best. Modern helmets could stop a 9mm round at point-blank…and Chavez wasn't too sure if the MP5/10s they had were able to defeat the helmets, especially since the 10mm rounds were subsonic hollowpoints; historically the worst performer of all types of bullets in terms of penetration…and their sound suppressors would further reduce bullet velocity, resulting in less power (and penetration).

Damn, he decided. Should have procured rifle-caliber weapons for Rainbow.

"My sentiments exactly."

"…Is there a blueprint of the site? My team and I have to plan the takedown."

"Follow me."

--

"What happened to Malloy…the helicopter pilot?" Wong asked.

"At that time, he was over the English Channel," Price replied. "He would only arrive in Paris an hour later…and by then, he was almost useless."

"Hey!" Malloy complained.

"Hey, _'mano_, we didn't factor you and your chopper into the assault plan," Chavez rejoined.

"What was the plan like?" Lee enquired.

"KISS," Chavez answered, truthfully.

--

"Let's keep it simple, stupid, shall we?" Chavez said aloud. 

The assaulters of Team-2 had gathered around Chavez, while the snipers joined their GIGN counterparts in futilely scanning the windows with their precision rifles. The blueprints of the building were laid across the hood of a police car, with red markings across its surface, signifying important people and items.

John Clark had elected to follow Domingo Chavez into Paris. He had set up a joint command post with the GIGN in a building some distance away from the apartment block, wishing that he could join his son-in-law. He hated being old…and all this command shit.

Meanwhile, Tim Noonan had set up an observation point directly opposite the apartment block, and was now scanning the building with a state-of-the-art thermal imager Rainbow had 'procured' a few weeks ago. The GIGN tech personnel had managed to install fiber-optic cameras and listening devices into the walls of the apartment block, and had built up a profile of the terrorists' _modus operandi_.

The front door had been booby-trapped. Using a pair of frag grenades, a couple of empty tin cans, some string, and a bit of sticky tape, the Tangos had ensured that anybody who opened the door would receive a nasty surprise, along with anybody behind him.

There were eight terrorists in all, spread out across the bottom four floors. Two of them were guarding a dozen hostages on the first floor. The others were patrolling the common corridors of the upper three floors, operating in pairs. The building had been vacated of civilians, fortunately; the terrorists had let the inhabitants go after grabbing several at random.

The GIGN had cut off cellular telephone signals in the area, but the Tangos remained indifferent. However, shortly after enforcing radio silence using a military jammer, the terrorists had threatened to kill hostages immediately. The French quailed, and the jammer was deactivated. That meant that the Tangos were in contact with each other by radio, and reported to their leader in regular intervals. That theory was confirmed by a GIGN radio intercept team, who listened into their radio conversations…but only after breaking the signals' encryption. And even that didn't offer very much in the way of intelligence.

"I think we should cross from the other roof," Price suggested.

"What do you mean?" Loiselle asked.

"Well, when I was still in the 22 SAS, we practiced crossing roofs using ladders. We can borrow some ladders from the local fire brigade, then head for the roofs of the buildings adjacent to the target location, and use the ladders to cross. It's pretty simple, really, so long as you don't lose your balance."

The idea of a hundred-foot drop to the ground didn't appeal to any of the Rainbow shooters, but what the hell: the insertion would be covert, and that was all that mattered.

"Okay, we can do that. What about the terrorists?" Chavez asked.

"Hmm…simultaneous assault?" George Taylor offered. Three weeks ago, he had been rotated into Rainbow from the United States Marine Corps' Force Recon, and was now participating in his first for-real counterterrorist operation.

"What do you mean?" Falcone wondered.

"The blueprints show that the common stairwell leads to the roof. We go down the stairs, then position ourselves on the first, second, third, and forth floors respectively. When we're in position, we storm the corridors simultaneously, and kill the Tangos in one fell swoop," the former Marine clarified.

"Good thinking," Team-2 Lead agreed. "_Oso_, you have your MP5/10, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Vega agreed.

He had swapped his M60E3 for a Mark 24 Mod 0 a long time ago…but now, he always carried an MP5/10, a B & T suppressor, and extra magazines in case he had to be called upon. He was lucky he was shooting in close quarters during the Worldpark job; the MP5/10 he borrowed wasn't zeroed for his eyesight, so it would not shoot to his point of aim at far distances…and he didn't dare take a hostage-rescue shot with a weapon he hadn't personally zeroed before.

"Okay. You and I will take the forth floor. Paddy, you and Eddie storm the third floor. Mike, you and Lois will assault the second floor. Big Bird, you and George will head for the first floor."

"Why George and I?" Falcone asked.

"Well…you and he are the best shooters in the team."

"I see…" Taylor muttered, sounding unconvinced.

"The terrorists have body armor and helmets, no? Will our 10mm rounds defeat that?" Loiselle worried.

"Well…" Chavez trailed. Sure, he knew what the 10mm Automatic could do to a human head…but not what it could do to a head protected by armor.

"If they don't you can always shoot them some more," Pierce answered for his boss.

--

"John, why didn't we get carbines or something back then?" Chavez asked of _his_ boss (and father-in-law).

"My fault," Clark admitted. "I didn't know that terrorists these days like to wear Kevlar if they're not donning belts of explosives. Besides…I didn't argue that we needed the extra funds hard enough."

"What do you mean?" Wong asked.

"Rainbow is run by bureaucrats," Clark said. "They are extremely stingy with money. They didn't see the need for us to buy carbines and ammunition, and didn't see the need to invest in training with such gear."

"Hmm…" Lee remarked. "Over here, MINDEF has virtually unlimited funds. What it asks for, it gets…and that translates to us. And, lucky for us, we don't have to handle bureaucrats."

"How come?" Clark enquired, envious of the Singaporeans.

"We're not part of the SAF. We answer directly to the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister through our liaison officer," Wong explained.

"Speaking of which, he's acting kind of suspicious these days," Cheah interrupted.

"What do you mean?" Wong asked, immediately on guard.

"I don't know…he's just acting strange, that's all," the writer replied.

"Meaning…?"

Cheah took a swig from his glass, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Call it a gut instinct. Back to the story, please…"

--

Nightfall. Malloy had finally arrived in Paris. He and his copilot, Nance, orbited the site, observing the perimeter through their night vision goggles. Chavez immediately had them patrolling a no fly zone around the apartment block, preventing the media from revealing too much to the world. Much to the consternation of the press, the pilots ordered all news choppers away from the area every time they were detected on radar. Malloy's fluent French, learned from his mother, made the media blame the GIGN.

As expected, the terrorists were not in any mood to negotiate. The negotiators had tried one last time, and threw in the towel. Team-2 passed the time by practicing the art of assembling the ladders and crossing gaps on them, while St. Jacques made do by fending off the press, answering to his superiors, and worrying. St. Jacques and Chavez collectively agreed to assault the apartment block half an hour ago.

Which led Chavez to this point, one hundred feet in the air, lying on a fireman's ladder.

The teams had elected to cross from the roof of the building to the site's right. The ladders the men had lugged up the stairs to the roof were made of four three-meter sections of aluminum, resulting in an overall length of eleven meters. According to the plans, that made for a half-meter overlap on either end, when the ladders were in place.

To save time, two ladders were placed across the gap of both buildings, parallel to each other, and two team members were to cross at one time. Chavez, being the leader, went first. With a safety tope tied around his waist and belayed to Loiselle, Chavez crawled forward, each knee on one rung at a time, all the while gripping the side rails.

Sweating under the weight of his gear and tension, he pulled himself forward, inch by inch, ever so carefully, praying that the ladder wouldn't give way under his weight. He told himself to look forward, not down, preventing the onset of acrophobia.

Fortunately enough, he made it across without any trouble. MP5/10 covering the door leading to the stairwell, Chavez waited for the others. Team-2 crossed without much fuss, and as soon as the men assembled, they headed for the stairs.

Just before the team had left, Chavez had decided to remove the sound suppressors from their MP5/10s. Stealth was not necessary once the takedown was underway, and the reduced velocity rounds may not have the power to penetrate the helmets.

Ding took the lead. Weapon aimed down, finger off the trigger, he slowly descended the flight of steps, each foot landing toes first, before touching down on the heels, being very careful. He could not afford to bump into anything; the sound produced might give him away. He kept a watchful eye as he cleared each corner and landing, moving slowly and steadily. Fortunately for the team, the stairwell was brightly lit, negating the use of night vision goggles, and there were no Tangos on guard duty.

Domingo Chavez stopped next to the wooden door on the fourth floor, leading to the common corridor. He took a place on the right of the door. Julio Vega deployed on the left side. Both men covered the door with their MP5/10s, gesturing for the others to carry on.

Edward Price then led the way. Like the rest of the team, he took extra pains to ensure that the approach was stealthy. His middle-aged body complained just a little, feeling the effects of the stresses he was placing on it. He ignored the minor aches and sores, concentrating on the task at hand. They vanished soon after. Presently, he arrived at his spot, and stacked up next to his door, along with Paddy Covington.

Mike Pierce, like Price, headed down another two flights of stairs before arriving on the second floor. He set the safety of his MP5/10 to full auto, then stood next to his door. Lois Loiselle stood opposite him, weapon ready. Falcone and Taylor moved on.

The last two men arrived at the ground floor, weapons covering the door. As far as Noonan could make out, the terrorists hadn't bothered booby-trapping the stairwell's access doors…but he could be wrong. As Taylor guarded the door, Falcone took his place opposite the American, and whispered "Lead: Falcone, Taylor is in place," into the radio.

"Roger. All, check in," Chavez ordered.

"Rifle Two-One, ready," Homer Johnston reported from outside, despite the fact that he had no targets.

"Rifle Two-Two, ready," Dieter Weber acknowledged.

"Noonan, ready."

Noonan's task was to provide real-time intelligence on the terrorists' positions before and during the assault. In case a terrorist deviated from his patrol, Noonan was to report it over the radio net.

"Rainbow Six, ready."

Clark didn't have much of a job, really. Because of his French language skills, however, he became the middleman between the GIGN and Rainbow. If Rainbow suddenly needed backup, Clark and St. Jacques would organize and lead a GIGN rapid reaction force to save the day…hopefully. Also, he was to alert the French equivalent of paramedics on standby at the roadblocks, in case somebody got hurt.

"Roger," Chavez said.

_Oh shit!_ he thought, suddenly remembering something.

"Check the doorknobs. See if they're locked," he ordered.

If they were locked…they'd have to be breached one way or another. There was too little time to prepare breaching charges for every door; should a door be locked, the Rainbow shooters would have to kick the doors down…something that was highly dangerous for the shooter in the doorway.

Vega enclosed the doorknob in his massive left hand. Slowly, carefully, he turned it, not wanting to draw attention to the door.

Slowly, gently, the knob rotated. Vega kept in hand in place.

Mercifully, the other doors were also unlocked, as reported by the other Rainbow shooters. Chavez heaved a mental sigh of relief, reminding himself to never, ever, forget to prepare door breaching methods as long as he was alive.

Vega reached into the pouches on his Close Quarters Combat vest with his other hand, extracting a flash-bang. He extracted the cotter pin from it with the index and third fingers of his left hand, keeping the stun grenade gripped firmly in his hands. So long as he didn't let go, the safety spoon would stay in place, and the grenade would not explode.

"Team, Lead. On my mark. Three…two…one…_MARK!_" Chavez ordered.

Immediately, Vega flung the door open with his left hand, and tossed in his flash-bang. It bounced twice on the floor, then exploded in a riot of sound and white light. As Vega returned his hands to his MP5/10, Chavez burst through the door, weapon up and scanning.

There were two terrorists, in the middle of a corridor, blinded and disoriented, easy targets. Chavez brought the SMG's diopter sights on the closer of the two, seeing the aiming post superimposed on a helmet and an even circle of light shining through the rear sight. He squeezed the trigger, hearing the SMG bark.

The shots reverberated throughout the building, and the recoil almost brought Chavez off target. But no matter; Chavez's aim was so fine that he had placed all three 10mm rounds between his target's eyes. The helmet didn't help much, except contain the spray of blood, bone, and brains.

Vega stormed through the open door, seeing the other target. Bringing the HK MP5/10 to bear, he let loose a three-round burst. His aim was not as good: the first bullet crashed into the helmet, buckling it and giving the terrorist an immediate concussion; the second round penetrated through the helmet and entered the terrorist's head; the last shot compounded the damage, blowing his brains all over the inside of his helmet.

"Fourth floor clear!" Chavez reported.

On the third floor, Covington threw in his flash-bang as soon as he heard Chavez's command. It sailed into the corridor, and detonated in a fury of light and noise. Price made entry, seeing a sole terrorist, right in his face, on his knees. The Tango's hands were on his weapon, so Price delivered a three-round burst of hollowpoints to his head. He saw blood erupt from the holes blown into the helmet, and that was good enough for Price.

_Wait…where's the other…!_

That was when he saw an open door, several meters away, leading into an apartment. It was half-open, directly blocking his view of what was beyond it. Covington guessed at what had happened, crouched, and sprayed a line of 10mm Automatic hollowpoints across the length of the door. Wood splintered as the rounds tore into the door, and Price swore that he heard a scream.

As soon as Covington released the trigger, Price ran forward, followed by Covington, the operatives careful not to cross into each other's line of fire.

"Noonan, Price!" he called over the radio. "Where's the other Tango on my floor?"

A few seconds later, Noonan said, "He's in the apartment with the open door. He's crawling into the living room."

Covington sidestepped, moving through ninety degrees as soon as he was in line with the door. Looking down, he saw two long trails of blood streak across the ground, leading to a terrorist lying prone on the floor of the living room in front of him. The Tango was bleeding from multiple leg wounds, but they were neither fatal nor crippling. He was still holding his AKS-74U, and rules were rules, so Covington shouldered his weapon and fired a triple tap into the terrorist's head. As an afterthought, he fired another three rounds into the Tango's skull. Better safe than sorry, he decided.

"Third floor clear!" he announced.

When Chavez's voice filtered through Loiselle's earpieces, his left hand was already on the doorknob, right hand gripping his stun grenade. Like Vega, he opened the door, threw in the flash-bang, and snatched up his MP5/10.

As soon as the stun grenade exploded, Pierce stormed into the corridor, again seeing two Tangos. He aimed at the closest terrorist's face, and pulled the trigger. Three explosions resounded…and then an AK opened fire.

As the Tango's brain died, it fired nerves all over his body, including that of his right index finger. His AKS-74U went off, pointed in Pierce's direction. The carbine's 5.45mm Soviet rounds ripped the air past his head—

—"Shit!" Pierce cursed, diving to the ground. The next few bullets attacked the air centimeters from his head. The American heard the bullets' passage, an unmistakable _SNAP_.

Loiselle entered as soon as Pierce had cleared the door. As though by telepathy, Loiselle had sighted the other Tango Pierce had ignored, and both men pulled their triggers at the same time. Both Tangos went down, dead before they hit the ground, bullets slicing into the air from the errant carbine. Loiselle sought the relative safety of the ground while the AKS-74U discharged itself.

The carbine went dry a few seconds later. Pierce whispered a prayer of thanks while Loiselle shouted, "Second floor clear!" into the radio.

Falcone decided to go in second, after Taylor. The Italian went through the routines, opening the door and throwing his stun grenade in.

Taylor counted.

_One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…what the hell?_

The flash-bangs Rainbow used had a two and a half second timer, accurate to half a second. This particular grenade, however, didn't explode.

"Shit! Cover me!" Taylor hissed, MP 5/10 up and ready as he entered the ground floor.

There were two Tangos, one mixed among a group of hostages, weapon down, and another a couple of feet to his right, weapon rising. Taylor engaged the second target, shooting him thrice in the head just before the terrorist could get a shot off.

Then, the stun grenade exploded. The flash burned the image of the terrorist's face exploding into Taylor's retinas. The noise disturbed his equilibrium, taking him off balance. All he could hear was a loud, sharp ringing while his ears struggled to recover from the abuse. He felt himself suddenly falling forwards, effectively blinded and deafened. He was going down, the job wasn't complete, at least one Tango was still alive, the hostages were still in danger, and he couldn't stop it.

"Fuck!" he shouted, removing his finger from the trigger, impotent and unable to continue.

Falcone entered just after the flash-bang. Fortunately for him, his position shielded him from the worst of the stun grenade's detonation, but he was completely deafened by the blast…and a little slower than normal.

Time seemed to slow down. Scanning, he saw Taylor fall to his knees, swearing and cursing. He saw a terrorist on the ground, bleeding profusely from the head and obviously no longer a threat. He saw the hostages screaming, unable to hear them. He saw one standing up. He saw the remaining Tango grab her by the throat from behind—

—Something went _click_. Bringing up his MP5/10, Falcone closed his left eye, seeing through the MP5/10's drum-like rear sight. He focused on the tip of the front sight's aiming post, a plastic protrusion in the middle of a plastic circle. He moved the MP5/10, superimposing the sight over the terrorist's unprotected face, even as the Tango tried to take cover behind the hostage. He perceived an even circle of light surrounding the front sight, indicating a perfect sight picture.

Falcone pulled the trigger.

_CLICK._

Through his enforced deafness, the Italian Rainbow shooter heard the noise very clearly and loudly indeed. Remembering his training, he released his SMG, letting it swing free on its harness as his right hand found his Beretta, nestled in its hip holster. He drew the Beretta Cougar 8045, focusing on the front sight. Suddenly, it became crystal clear, while everything else became blurred. Falcone aligned the tip of the sight with the middle of his target zone: between and just below the eyes.

Ettore Falcone squeezed the trigger twice, executing a perfect double tap.Time returned to normal. He saw the terrorist's head snap back under the force of two .45 147-grain Hydrashok bullets, a halo of red surrounding it. He pulled the hostage down with him, his AKS-74U clattering to the ground.

"First floor clear!" Falcone reported, heading for the human shield.

"Building clear!" Chavez announced.

"Building clear!" Price seconded.

"Building clear!" Pierce agreed.

"Building clear!" Taylor gasped, recovering from the insult of the flash-bang.

--

"From there, we safetied the terrorists' weapons, secured and frisked the hostages, and then returned operational control to the GIGN," Chavez concluded.

"What the hell was that? The stun grenade not detonating, the weapon jamming…" Gao asked of everybody and nobody.

"Mister Murphy," Taylor replied, grinning as he took a swig.

"Who?"

"The asshole who enforces Murphy's Law: anything that can go wrong will."

"Oh."

"Apparently, the fuse was cut too long, and the bullet had a faulty primer," Price added, sipping his second pint of the evening.

"Bloody hell," Wong noted.

"Quite so," Cheah noted, finally breaking his silence. "And, like it or not, Mr. Murphy has a strange way of popping up whenever you think he's dead."

"He _is _dead. He's just a ghost," a Rainbow operative offered, deadpan.

"So that's why we haven't seen him before," Imran muttered rhetorically.

The teams chuckled softly. Cheah just smiled into his mug, and drained it in a long pull.

"Incidentally, the weapons the Tangos used were reported destroyed in a fire in a Russian armory in 1987," Clark said. "The powers that be didn't pursue the matter."

He didn't have to say that the weapons had really been sold on the international black market in exchange for cold, hard cash.

"What about the armor?" Wong asked.

"Well…if you can believe this, they were purchased from DuPont under an alias," Rainbow Six replied, grimacing.

"Damn…how the hell do terrorists and criminals get body armor anyway?" Kumar asked.

"Hell if I know. There are ways and means," Chavez answered, finishing his pint.

"There're always ways and means to defeat them," Loiselle consoled. "We just have to think."

"Yeah, but over here…us guys are…proactive," Wong said, delicately. "Let's just say that we do things a little more aggressively than most politicians like, though we have the PM's support. If we start meeting enemies with body armor, we're screwed."

"Take head or groin shots, then," Cheah offered. "And don't worry, you will."

"What do you mean?" Wong asked, again.

"Well…al-Qaeda terrorists have been reported engaging in firefights with US Army troops while wearing body armor. If they can procure armor, then it stands to reason that other terrorists will get them."

"I see…"

"How many men do you have in your unit?" Covington asked.

"Twenty, like yours."

"I see…isn't that too little for a black ops unit?"

"Yeah," Wong agreed, taking a pull from his warm beer. "Hell, we came close to stretching ourselves too thin a lot of times. We're still looking for a few good men."

"Meaning?" Chavez wondered.

"Men of the same caliber as Rainbow."

"I see…hey, where's Cheah?" Price asked, looking around.

The writer was gone.

"What the hell…?" Lim whispered.

The men scanned the pub for him, seeing absolutely no trace of him at all. As they exchanged quizzical looks, they saw a piece of paper lying atop the table the Singaporeans were sitting at.

Wong picked it up, and read it aloud.

"'Thanks to my preliminary examinations, tests, and homework, I'll have to disappear for a while…and study like hell. See you in a few. Cheah'"

"'Preliminary examinations'?" Chavez repeated.

"Think of it as a series of papers on various subjects. In 2006, if Cheah is to spend the first three months in a junior college instead of idling at home, he has to pass JC requirements in those papers. Never mind that the 'O' levels, which theoretically decides his tertiary education institution of choice, are more important…and are set easier than the preliminary examinations"

"What the hell are the preliminary examinations for, then?" Clark asked.

"Hell if I know."

Author's Note 2: I know, I know, in _Rainbow Six_, Chavez and co. use 'MP-10s' with integral sound suppressors. Fact is, the MP-10 is really called the 'MP5/10', and they do NOT have integral suppressors: they are accessories. The approach method used by Rainbow had been deliberately simplified, for obvious reasons. Also, due to the aforementioned reason, I will not have the time to write as much as I want to…


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Black Operation 

"What the hell!" Chavez shouted.

The majority of the occupants of the Green Dragon looked up and at the Rainbow operative, equal parts irritated, amused, and indifferent. These days, it was best not to ask too many questions about too many things, if one wished to remain alive and well…relatively speaking.

"Yes, Ding," Wong patiently repeated for the umpteenth time that day.

Once more, the Rainbow and Singaporean soldiers had gathered in the pub, for their customary after-training drink. And, once more, the Muslim soldiers had opted for milk and water. The men were sitting at their tables, mixing with their counterparts. Since the beginning of the cross training session, the men had always been doing that, having recognized each other as men of the same caliber.

"What happened?" Lee asked.

"Well, Chris and I had a shooting match today," Falcone answered.

"And?" Clark demanded, wondering why Wong was so stupid.

"I shot four hundred points," he replied simply.

"What the hell…?" Gao whistled.

"It's pretty easy once you get the hang of it. Also, I had a good night's sleep," the Italian said, somewhat bashfully and definitely humbly.

"Yeah, yeah."

Gao could shoot rifles and SMGs better than many of his counterparts when he was part of the SOF…but couldn't for the life of him shoot a pistol well enough to even think of competing with the Rainbow troopers. Hell, he just scraped through the basic requirements…

"Steve…you really should go ask Dave Woods, the range master. He'll be able to solve your problem," Wong suggested, looking up from his beer mug.

"…Really, _meh_?" he asked, fairly cynically.

"'_meh_'?" Price repeated, opposite Gao…and doing fairly badly at that.

"It means nothing," Cheah asked, appearing behind Price. "It's just a word used for emphasis."

"What the—" 

Cheah shook his head, and sighed.

"What did I say the last time?"

"Cheah…when the hell did you walk in?"

"Just now," the cadet answered, smiling…but there was something about it, something about it that the men couldn't place a finger on.

"_Xiao li cang dao_ (hsi-OW l-Eee ch-AHng d-Ow)," Lee thought out loud.

The puzzled expressions shot at him led him to explain: "It's a Chinese proverb. Literally translated, it means 'smile hiding knives'. The contextual meaning is roughly the same."

"Oh…" the others resounded.

"Well, whatever," the youth said.

"Oh yeah, happy birthday," Wong said.

"It's too late…" Cheah moaned. "Besides, my birthday isn't all that special: I work and study on my birthday too."

"Really?" Chavez remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye," the writer replied, feeling older than he really was. "I've got a lot of homework, several tests a week…Hell, I'm paying attention to you guys more than _A Better Tomorrow_, _Mercenary_, or my other stories."

"I'm so honored," Imran said, chuckling a little. "Why do you have so much to do?"

Thanks to _kiasu_-ism, and the fact that I have a bean counter of a pri…wait, better not say that."

"Why?"

"Well…it's like this.

"What you call the real world is really a story. I am the writer of this story, yes? Some people know my real name…and they live in my country. If I publicly defame anyone on the Internet, I might face lawsuits."

"Oh…wait, Internet?" Pierce suddenly realized.

"Yeah…you're characters in my story, and it's on the Internet."

"Wait a minute…so why haven't I read any fan fiction stories involving this part of our lives on the Internet?" Lee asked.

"I'm referring to the Internet in my world."

"Meaning?"

"What I call the 'real world'. Your 'real world' consists of just words I type into a computer screen, or write into the notebook I always carry. It exists only on the Internet from my perspective, while you lot see everything around you as 'real'.

"My 'real world' is the world I live in. This means the world my readers live in. Hell, for all I know, my life could well be a story, and my life is just one dictated by writers out there. The world I live in could well be fiction. After all, we don't know if there are other worlds out there, and that my world—like yours—could just be a figment of someone's imagination…"

Stars appeared in the writer's eyes. The thirty Rainbow commandos and the support personnel wondered, very briefly, exactly what the hell Cheah was rambling on about. Wong raised an eyebrow. Lee said, "Eh, snap out of it. You're being too philosophical for me to digest…you're almost as philosophical as he is," Lee added, gesturing at his CO.

"Ah, who cares," he agreed, leaving his reverie.

"So…why are you here? To tell the world out there our stories?" Vega asked.

"Well… no. Just because. I mean; you don't exist in my world…do you?"

Reading the expressions on the men's faces, he shook his head, smiling another strange smile.

"Forget it…Anyway Wong, what was your score in the competition?"

"Er…four hundred points."

A second passed.

A lifetime hurtled by.

Then, Rainbow burst into cheers. Raising their beer mugs, they toasted the Singaporean, saluting his accomplishment. Slapping his back, Price grinned. Falcone smiled a little. The other Singaporeans joined in, having been roundly thrashed by the Italian sharpshooter. Cheah stood a little way back, narrowly avoiding a stream of beer tossed from its mug. It landed at his boots, slapping against the floor.

"Four hundred points! That's the first time _anybody_ tied with Big Bird!" Clark congratulated.

"Thank you," Wong replied. "Pistol shooting's just—"

"Cut the crap _lah_," Kumar interrupted.

"Indeed. He's very skilled in the art of the pistol," Falcone agreed.

"Not just that. He's pretty good in everything else, too," Cheah said.

"Oh?" Mike Chin asked.

"Yeah…considering that he's among the best-trained commandos in Singapore."

"Really?"

Cheah nodded.

"Wong, tell them about what you did…that black operation you did some months ago."

"That?" Wong asked. "Wouldn't that be illegal?"

"You didn't say anything," Vega reassured him.

"Yeah. I mean, as far as I'm concerned, I left the pub to do my homework," Cheah seconded, taking his cue.

"Homework?" Wong asked.

"And revision."

"Right…well, here goes," Wong muttered to himself. Standing up, he positioned himself such that the Rainbow men could see him. He took a deep breath, then started on his narrative.

"Last year, about six months ago, we were called up on our first black operation…"

--

The twenty commandos found their seats in the Briefing Room. The room held eight rows of ten seats, more than enough for everyone in the unit. The whiteboard in front of them had a diagram drawn upon it, initially resembling a squiggle of sorts. A plastic table on the right-hand corner of the room had a laptop sitting atop it, next to a manila envelope. The laptop was connected to a projector installed into the roof with an RGB cable that snaked from the computer to the projector's jacks.

Their commanding officer, whom they all called 'Sir' or 'the Colonel', was waiting. Dressed in Smart No. 4 like his men, he was Singapore's answer to John Clark, without the suit. He bordered on sixty years of age, with the lines and white hair to prove it.

"Gentlemen, I know it's kind of rushed, but we have an emergency," the Colonel began.

'Rushed' was an understatement. the unit had been established a mere month ago, just long enough for everyone to recognize each other on sight, to remember their call signs…but not long enough for much else. They lacked a team dynamic of sorts, one that could only be built up through long months of training.

"The Internal Security Department has received intelligence about a terrorist group based in Indonesia. It's called 'Dara Dan Doa', 'Blood and Prayer' in English. We thought that after the capture of its leader some time back, it disbanded. Unfortunately, it has resurfaced, and is now targeting American allies in the region, as well as American targets.

"It is currently amassing a cache of arms and explosives for use in a campaign in the South East Asia. We have reason to believe that their first strike will be aimed at the shipping that passes through the Straits of Malacca. To be precise, ships from the region."

"A terrorist attack in the Straits of Malacca, successful or no, will have a severe impact on the economy in South East Asia, especially Singapore. Gentlemen, remember that shipping is one of the cornerstones of our economy; by attacking at maritime trade, these terrorists may cause millions of dollars worth of damage, shatter investor confidence, and damage our credibility as a secure port. That is, of course, not including the casualties caused by such a terrorist operation. Right now, we have no idea as to how they will strike, or when.

"Normally, we would inform the Indonesians and let them handle it. However, the terrorists are based out of an island in the province of Aceh; any attempt by the Indonesian military to eliminate the terrorist camp there could poison the peace process between the Indonesians and the GAM (Free Aceh Movement).

"Because of this, MINDEF and the Prime Minister have decided to activate you to wipe out the terrorists. This is a black operation: there can be no traces to Singapore. The Indonesians have not sanctioned this op, so be careful. In fact, the powers that be in MINDEF are very agitated. They want the Indonesians to handle it, not us, never mind the political repercussions. Those bureaucrats are looking for an excuse to shut us down, so you have to get it right.

"Your mission is to destroy the terrorist arms cache. If you can destroy the camp, and neutralize the terrorists on site, that is a bonus. Any questions up to this point?"

"Sir?" Wong asked, raising his hand. "Why us, sir? Why can't the SOF handle it?"

The Colonel cracked a rare wry smile.

"This unit's a black op unit, so MINDEF wants us to go, not the SOF, never mind that we're still trying to get the paperwork and logistics settled."

"Sir, do we have any intel about the terrorist camp?" another commando asked.

"Yes. We've infiltrated an unmanned aerial vehicle over the island, and took multiple snapshots of the site. I've drawn up the layout of the island on the whiteboard; the photos are on the desk inside the envelope. Use them as you see fit."

--

"At this point of time, I've to clarify a few things," Wong started.

"The twenty men in my unit are organized into four teams of five men: Red, Blue, Green, and Gold Teams. Each man within the team has his own role and specialty. They are: IC, 2IC, point man, marksman, and support weapon.

"However, this is just a start. Every man within the unit is a marksman; the team marksman is really the team sniper. The team also has a designated signaler, explosives expert, medic, languages, driver, etc. That's not forgetting that every man is an assaulter in CQB when necessary."

"Sounds complicated," Price offered.

"Trust me: it's not. At least, one will get used to it."

"Why five men per team?" Pierce asked.

"The USMC once said in a study that the five-man fire team is optimal for close quarters combat. Also, the LAPD SWAT team and the SEALs follow that doctrine, at least for CQB."

"But, you're not doing CQB here!" Taylor protested.

"Of course, _lah_!" Gao replied.

"'_Lah_'?" Price repeated.

"Another nonsense word, used for emphasis in Singlish. If nothing else, it defines Singlish…whatever it is," Cheah answered.

"Back to this," Wong said. "I preferred eight men per team, but we're lacking in suitable candidates for our unit. I mean…most of the SOF guys will be missed if they were to mysteriously disappear, and not every commando can keep secrets. Also, some of them are not qualified for our kind of job…and that's just for starters."

"I see…by the way, why are there so few Malays in your commandos, and none in the SOF?" Chavez asked.

"…I have no idea," Cheah answered, his tone indicating that it would be best to not know why. "Strangely enough, in the unit, there are very few Indians, a couple of Eurasians (Asians with European ancestry), some Malays, and an overall Chinese majority."

"Is that a big deal?" Chavez asked.

"No…not to you. To us, yes. Racial harmony is very important in Singapore, after all. Seems to me that the proportion of races in the unit is almost the same as the actual ratio in Singapore."

"I see..." Chavez said, not really understanding. "Chris, please?"

"Right. To carry on…"

--

The men started to plan. In most Singaporean SpecOps units (like the rest of Singapore), planning was done top-down: the leader comes up with the plan, and the others just memorize it, unless there's a major cock-up somewhere…and maybe not even then.

In this unit, everyone was encouraged to plan. That was a little unnatural at first, even after the other officers took over. Red Lead, the commando named Tay, was placed in charge, owing to his experience in the SOF…not that he actually had a plan in mind.

A few minutes passed in silence as the men examined the map. The island was shaped like an irregularly drawn oval. At the southwest, there was a jetty of sorts, for the terrorists to receive supplies from elsewhere. Six boats were moored there. In addition, there was a shack several meters beyond the jetty, marked with the number '1'. Eight barrels of something-or-other, possibly fuel, were arranged neatly on the ground next to the jetty. There were two visible guards in the picture, with weapons slung over their shoulders. The resolution was too poor for the commandos to make them out.

There was a trail at the far end of the jetty. It cut a path through the jungle in the middle of the island, leading to the terrorist camp. There were three buildings here: two large wooden ones built parallel to each other, labeled '2' and '3' respectively, and a small one behind them that resembled a generator, numbered '4'. Intelligence believed that Building 2 was the barracks, while no. 3 was the HQ. There were also four sentries posted in the area, all armed.

A trail at the east end of the camp led to a small clearing. There was a single wooden structure there, with a single guard. It was marked '5' on the board. Intel thought that that was where the terrorists were storing the arms cache.

Tay went through the map again and again, forming the ghost of a plan in his mind. He spent ten minutes refining the idea in his head before turning to his men.

"Guys, I think I've a plan. Here're the op orders," he said.

"Enemy forces: the terrorists...Dara Dan Doa, if you will. Also include members of the Indonesian military and/or law enforcement agencies who happen upon us, and possibly civilians. Everybody but the Tangos are non-designated targets: casualties should be kept to a minimum…at least, for everybody but the terrorists.

"Friendly forces: us. There's no support in the region, so we're on our own. I don't need to elaborate.

"Now…my basic idea is to infiltrate the area using four mini submarines. We can borrow them from the SOF, the target island is within their range, and everybody here has been through basic familiarization with the sub. We insert here," Captain Pete Tay said, pointing at a spot to the southwest of the jetty.

"Blue Team, you disembark first, and take out the exterior guards silently. Use suppressed weapons or knives—"

"We don't have sound suppressors for any our weapons except for the USPs!" Lee pointed out.

Somehow, despite the fact that the commandos had requested for sound suppressors and MP5SD3s three weeks ago, and had priority for equipment acquisition, only the Advanced Armament Corp. suppressors they wanted for their USP9SDs had arrived.

"Damn…ah, well, use suppressed USPs, then. Knives are preferable…or your bare hands."

Gao raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Hand-to-hand combat is for worst-case scenarios. All the men were trained in tae-kwon do, but the twenty men had heard many horror stories of how martial arts exponents were defeated by street criminals. Wong had some radical ideas…but MINDEF wouldn't listen to him.

"When the area is secure, Red, Green, and Gold Teams will move out. Blue Team will be the security element for this operation, while the others will be the assault element. Green and Gold Teams will make their way to the terrorist HQ, while Red Team will head for Building 5. Green Team, clear out Building 2. Gold Team, you've the most SOF personnel, so clear Building 3. Red Team, clear Building 5.

"When everything is done, we regroup in the jetty, then exfiltrate. Any comments?"

"Sir," a Eurasian named Eddie Roman said, "I think we should knock out the generator before actually assaulting the HQ. If anything, it'll confuse the enemy."

"Good point. Anything else?"

"What should we do if the terrorists detect us during the stealth aspect of the op?" Gao worried.

"Then…we assault the place. Stick to the plan, and improvise where necessary," Tay replied, unconvincingly.

"What do we do if we're detected en route to the island?" Captain Wong asked.

"Well…we've no choice but to abort," he decided.

"Well, damn."

--

"That'll be a bummer," Mike Chin observed.

"Aye," Cheah seconded. "There is no room for failure; there is no acceptable outcome but victory."

"Indeed," Wong agreed. " We also modified the plan some more before moving on. The preparation phase is too long and boring for me to remember, so I'll skip that part—"

"Can't you at least remember what weapons and equipment you carried?" Covington muttered.

"Well…Blue Team carried Colt M4A1s for their primary weapons," Wong recalled. "The other teams took HK MP5A5s with them. For pistols, we all carried USP9SDs fitted with sound suppressors. They're traceable to America and Germany. Our ammunition has no lot numbers or markings...don't ask me where we got them from. In addition, we all carried six grenades each: three stun grenades and three frag grenades, of European manufacture. Also, we carried flashlights, US Army issue, fitted with red lenses. Our knives were stilettos, traceable to Britain. The rest of our kit is also on-attributable to Singapore."

"Wait…" Price said.

"Yes?"

"Singapore's the only country that issues stilettos to its commandos in South East Asia, no?"

"Yes…but look: the stilettos are British, not Singaporean. Besides, who would care about knives, anyway?" Cheah reasoned.

"All right…"

"We wanted to equip ourselves with our 'throwaway weapons', guns that we can discard after using them in an op. However, we didn't have any at that time, thanks to the powers that be. In addition, we loaded our weapons with full metal jacket rounds; we haven't received any JHPs yet. At least, deniable ones."

"Wait…you loaded your MP5s with 9mm FMJs?" Chin asked.

"Yeah. The 9mm in FMJ isn't worth shit most of the time…"

"Oh?" Taylor remarked. He had been issued with a Beretta M9 pistol throughout his career in Force Recon, but never had the chance to use it, not even in Iraq. He always kept it loaded with 9mm FMJs, and had always wondered what damage the 9x19mm round would inflict on a live target. What he had read wasn't encouraging.

"I'll tell you why later," Wong said, "I'll skip the preparatory part and move right on to the infil. We arrived in Indonesia at 2217 hours…"

--

Blue Team sat in the cramped ingress/egress compartment of their minisub, dressed in their night-black operations uniforms and full gear. They were also wearing a thin neoprene diving suit under their uniforms for added protection against the cold water. They were illuminated by a bank of red electric lights mounted on the ceiling of the compartment. Their carbines, slung over their shoulders, had condoms taped over their muzzles to prevent the ingress of water, thus reducing the number of ways Mr. Murphy could screw things up for them. Their pistols sat in their special holsters, also with condoms fastened over their suppressors' muzzles.

The five commandos sat in silence atop metal seats welded into the frame, waiting for their SOF navigators to pilot them to their destination. They spent their time checking their weapons, checking the seals on their firearms, their pockets, everything that become loose.

The commandos had opted not to take their MARS sights along. They had no idea if they were waterproof or not, and now would not be a good time to test it out. Besides, theirs were on loan from the SOF; they were still waiting for their 'deniable' MARS reflex sights.

The Singaporean unit maintained a 'friendly' relationship with the SOF. The black operators borrowed eight SOF commandos to pilot the minisubs, since the former could not afford to leave anybody behind in the subs to man them. After all, doing that would reduce the teams' firepower by a quarter, and that was unacceptable. The SOF guys wouldn't speak a word of the op: as far as they were concerned, they were on a training mission.

The men waited, sweating under their suits. The compartment was lit by a pair of electric red lights, connected to the sub's battery. An intercom connected them to the pilots. To the far end of their compartment was a door that led to the actual ingress/egress chamber.

After a long, long, long, long, long, long, time, the navigator finally spoke up.

"You're here. I'm opening the exterior hatch. Good luck."

As if on cue, water streamed into the compartment above the operators' heads. The put their oxygen tanks on, clumsily wearing their masks with their gloved hands. Done, they stayed still, waiting for the ice-cold water to fill the compartment. They fidgeted a bit, trying to keep warm.

Eventually, the compartment was full of ice-cold water. Blue Team looked up, looking for the access hatch. They found it, a darker hole in a world of darkness. They kicked themselves off their seats, swimming towards the hole.

Wong, being the team leader, was first. He swam towards to the access hatch, careful not to bump his head against any of the bulkheads. He noted that the sub had settled on the bottom of the sea (_the deepest submerged portion of the beach_, he reminded himself).

Exiting the sub, he looked around. There was nothing but darkness all around; he saw nothing beyond what was arms-length from him. Very carefully, he kept close to the submarine (he noted that it was yellow; the Beatles' song _Yellow Submarine _suddenly popped into his head and stayed there), waiting for his men. In due course, they emerged from the submarine and lined up behind him, giving him a tap on the shoulder to signal that they were ready.

When he felt four taps on his left shoulder, Wong rapped the metal hull of the submarine four times with his finger, signaling to the navigators/whatever the hell they were that it was time to close the access hatch. Nothing happened.

_Damn. Should have brought a hammer or something_.

Unslinging his submerged carbine, he tapped its stock four times against the hull, praying that he didn't break anything.

No response.

Turning around, he slung his carbine over his hands, then used his left hand to sign '_I need a volunteer_'.

Lee raised his hand.

_I need you to tell the navigators to close the access hatch_, Wong signed. He received a thumbs-up.

Lee swam off, turning around and heading for the front of the submarine. Reaching the bow, he stopped at where he thought the navigators would be. Then, he extracted his stiletto, and tapped its pommel against the sub's hull four times.

He received a pair of taps from the other side in response. Satisfied, he returned to his CO.

Seeing the access hatch closing, the five commandos stealthily swam to the surface. They were using closed-circuit rebreathers, so they would not leave a telltale stream of bubbles. In addition, they moved gently, using smooth strokes instead of powerful ones, preventing waves from forming in the water and blowing their cover.

Gao was the first to break the surface of the water. His black mask blended in with the water, preventing casual observers from seeing him. He scanned the area.

It was a dark, moonless night, but Gao could more or less orient himself. Everything was where the photos said they would be. The jetty was roughly twenty meters to his three o'clock. To his one o'clock were the barrels of stuff in the photos.

But something was missing…

_Where are the guards?_

That was when he saw a flash of red light in the distance, to his eleven o'clock. It was a cigarette, lit by a sentry who didn't have the brains to understand that smoking kills. Literally.

Submerging, Gao turned to the team, and spelt out the situation with his hands.

Wong frowned. Herein lies a tactical problem. The only cover the men had were the barrels and the shack. Everywhere else was open ground. A stealth approach across open ground was possible, but highly risky…and one never knows who will approach the jetty from the camp.

Ah, what the hell. Using his hands, he signaled for Gao to follow him, while the other three were to stay in the cold water. The men complied. Gao and Wong moved stealthily, crawling up the beach while still submerged, going prone to minimize their chances of detection. The two commandos surfaced, barely breaking the surface of the water. Wong carefully drew his pistol from its holster. It was a special one, inasmuch as it wasn't a holster. It composed of two nylon straps sewn into Wong's combat vest's right hip, with a Velcro strap to cover the pistol. While it made for a rapid quick-draw, it was also noisy.

He heard a brief crackle to his sides as the Velcro straps gave way. Holding his pistol high up and out of the water, he removed the condom from the USP9SD and stuffed it in a pocket, scanning the area for any hostiles.

That was when he saw a glow of red light. His training told him that it was from a cigarette…and that its owner was looking at him.

Everything became instinctive. Bringing his left hand to the pistol, Wong snapped the weapon to bear, right thumb flicking the safety down. The cigarette's glow made a fine reference point, but he chose not to shoot at it. Instead, at the last second, he raised the pistol high and to the right before squeezing the trigger twice.

The shots sounded like a pneumatic stapler being fired. Sound suppressors weren't meant to reduce the volume of a gunshot (though they did); their main purpose was to make a shot sound like something else. The subsonic 9x19mm full metal jacket rounds entered the terrorist's head and blasted through the thickest part of his skull, ripping through his brain before exploding out the other side, leaving a bloody wake.

The Tango fell forward, the cigarette flying from his lips.

Wong and Gao rapidly scanned the area. Through their natural night vision, they saw nothing, but their eyes could not penetrate the deeper areas of shadow. Quietly moving forward, they scanned their surroundings rapidly.

Nothing, of course. Wong lowered his USP9SD, then reached up. He was wearing a pair of night vision/thermal imaging goggles mounted on a head harness. It was a prototype, developed by ST Engineering for Special Forces use, on loan to the unit for a six-month trial period. The ones the unit had had no markings or serial numbers on them, and they were as such untraceable.

The dark night became brilliant shades of green, after Wong wiped the water from the goggles' lenses. Covering Gao while he found his own NVG, Wong scanned the area once more.

This time, he saw the other guard. He was walking around the shack, an AK of sorts slung over his right shoulder. He was tunneling: focusing too much on what was in front of him rather than around him.

At least, that was what Wong could make out. The resolution of the goggles wasn't as good as he preferred. Gao finished setting up, then swept the area with his pistol, searching for targets.

Tapping on Gao's shoulder, Wong signaled to him to take out the patrolling guard. Nodding, Gao holstered his pistol, then reached for his stiletto. It was kept in a sheath mounted behind the combat vest, and designed to blend in with the clothing so well that only well-trained observers could spot it.

Gao held the knife in his right hand in the conventional fashion, tip pointing at the sky. Crouching down, he crept towards the shack, moving lightly on his feet, using his left hand for balance. He kept only to firm, soft grass-covered soil, the better to absorb what noise he made while traveling.

Reaching the shack, he flattened himself against its wooden wall as noiselessly as possible, scanned, and waited.

And scanned, and waited.

And scanned, and waited.

In time, a dark man-sized figure appeared around the corner to his left. It walked straight on, unknowingly heading towards the dead Tango. Gan took his cue. He headed towards the Tango, running on tiptoes to minimize sound, and using his knees to absorb what noise energy was created.

A few seconds later, he arrived right behind the Tango, and realized that he was shorter than the terrorist, but that was all right. Reaching out with his left hand, Gao covered the Tango's mouth, stifling all sound from it and tilting it up, exposing his neck, simultaneously kicking out at the back of the Tango's right kneecap to bring him down. Gao brought his knife to the Tango's throat, and sliced through it the way he was trained to do. The knife easily cut through the jugular vein, then opened the terrorist's windpipe, slashed through his vocal chords, and then tore the carotid artery open before exiting.

A fountain of blood erupted from the hole in the terrorist's neck. It spurted everywhere, staining the ground red. A slight gurgle emerged from the gaping wound as Gao let the terrorist go, seeing him bleed to death…if he wasn't already dead.

Gao gave a thumbs-up to Wong, out in the open and almost scared shitless. Wong hooked up with Gao, reminding himself to talk to Gao when they were back home.

The two commandos made their way to the shack, keeping low and scanning all around. Reaching the east wall of the shack, they headed for its south side, still searching the night. The two men beheld a wooden door that led into the shack, hearing a whispered conversation in Bahasa Indonesia. The commandos stacked up next to the door, Gao on the left and Wong on the right.

Wong drew his stiletto with his left hand, and transferred his USP9SD to his right hand. Then, he cocked his left arm, and placed his USP9SD on his left wrist. Now, both blade and pistol were facing the same direction in the classic Harries/Chapman technique, also called Dual Force.

Gao raised his eyebrow. Wong replied with a look that said _I know what I'm doing_. Gao responded with an expression that went _No, you don't_.

Shrugging, Wong stood in front of the door, then raised and deactivated his NV/TI goggles (they were useless in such close quarters). The men had decided earlier that Wong, not the point man, should enter the shack first and clear it with either his knife or USP (or both), since he was (technically) the best in this sort of situation. Taking a deep breath, Wong moved his left hand towards the doorknob.

The door promptly opened, revealing a terrorist.

A second passed, as both commando and Tango stared at each other, processing their thoughts. A lifetime later, Wong remembered why the hell he was here…and wondered why the hell wasn't he moving.

The Singaporean stepped forward, using the 'falling step' favored by boxers. Snaking his left hand out, Wong gripped the terrorist's shoulder and forced his upper torso down with his body weight. Before the terrorist could protest, the commando jammed his USP9SD into the terrorist's gut and fired a double-tap. The Tango's body convulsed as the bullets entered his body and blew out of his back. Pulling the terrorist back, Wong placed the muzzle of the USP under the Tango's chin and pulled the trigger, ending the bout.

Kicking the Tango down with a tae-kwon do push kick, Wong stormed into the shack. Scanning, Wong saw another terrorist, an AK-47 slung over his right shoulder, to his eleven o'clock.

The terrorist turned. Wong snapped the USP up over his chest, gripping it in both hands as best as he could, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

_SHIT!_

The Tango blinked.

Wong stepped up to him, slashing out at the Tango's neck with his blade. The terrorist suddenly realized that Wong was here to kill him, and reacted by snapping his right arm out, slamming his forearm into the inside of Wong's elbow joint, blocking the attack.

Gao had rushed into the room, saw the men grappling each other, raised his USP9SD…then realized he didn't have a clear shot. All he could see was Wong's back, nothing more. A gas lamp lit the interior of the shack, allowing Gao to observe the mêlée.

But Wong took no notice of that. Flowing with the block, he swiftly lashed out with a low kick, preventing the terrorist from counterattacking. He pressed his weight forward, feeling his boot connect with the Tango's right kneecap.

The joint blew out under him, and the terrorist cried out in pain. The terrorist, unable to support his weight on his now-useless knee, fell backwards awkwardly, landing on his back, while Wong holstered his pistol. The commando pressed the attack, going to the ground with his enemy. With one hand, he flipped the knife around, so the tip was now pointed at the ground.

Wong plunged the knife into the middle of the Tango's abdomen, feeling it wend its way through soft tissue. Wong swiftly positioned his left hand over the terrorist's mouth, shutting him up, and applied his full body weight against him.

Wong felt the Tango's hot breath on his gloved hand, saw the sweat gathering across his face, sensed the fear in him. But that was of no consequence.

No time for surgical strikes or for precision. Wong pushed his blade further into the terrorist's body, then dragged it and rotated it every which way, enlarging the wound and maximizing the damage. Warm blood spilled out all over the commando's vest, but he took no notice. The terrorist screamed, but it was stifled; nobody outside the hut could have heard him. Wong kept moving the blade around, tearing the terrorist up inside. He could smell the contents of the terrorist's guts, some decayed food matter of sorts. The terrorist kept thrashing, but it was no use: Wong had him securely pinned.

Eventually, the terrorist's movements slowed and weakened. When he was too weak to resist, Wong released his knife, grabbed the top of the Tango's head with his left hand, gripped the bottom of his skull as best as he could with his right hand, then snapped both hands in opposing directions.

Wong rotated the Tango's head through three hundred and sixty degrees, feeling the bones in his neck pop, crack, and break. Done, he wiped the blood and…other stuff…off his blade on the terrorist's shirt, sheathed the stiletto, and turned to Gao.

"I'm fine," he whispered, somewhat breathlessly. It was all right to talk now; anyone nearby would have heard the commotion.

That was when he noticed the radio in the shack, mounted on a shelf cut into the walls. The terrorists could be communicating with each other by radio; they had to move before the dead men were missed.

A long slit had been cut into the wall at the shack's twelve o'clock position, allowing its occupants to see out into the water, as well as the jetty. He counted the boats moored there, seeing four…

_Weren't there six?_

There was no time to think about that.

"Secure the perimeter!" Wong ordered.

The two commandos burst out of the shack, weapons raised.

Unslinging his M4A1, removing its condom and setting it to full automatic, Wong scanned the area, seeing nothing of interest. Neither did Gao. Turning to each other, they nodded, and headed for the jetty. With Gao on overwatch, Lee grabbed the flashlight from its pouch, pointed it towards the water, and pressed his thumb down on the flash switch thrice, sending three flashes of red light towards the water.

Like wraiths from the deep, eighteen figures emerged from the sea, water spilling off their bodies as they headed for the beach, removing the condoms from their firearms.

--

"What the hell was that?" Chavez asked.

"Hand-to-hand combat, at its most brutal," Li replied soberly. "If it isn't over within the first few seconds, it will be prolonged, and will get messy."

"Did your martial arts training help?" Price enquired.

"Only in the kicks…and not by very much," Wong answered. "Fact is, in combat, the technique one uses doesn't matter; it's one's mindset. The fighter has to _want_ to win. He must be determined to survive at all costs, and not give up. Ever.

"Furthermore, modern martial arts are little more than sports or artistic techniques. They don't each people how to really fight people with their bare hands…I mean, in real life, do you think you'll be fighting one-on-one against an unarmed enemy who plays by the rules? Martial arts make that assumption…and many martial artists have paid the price.

"Fact is, on the street, the most likely scenario would involve a gang of armed criminals surrounding you on all sides and ambushing you. Fear and shock step in, followed by adrenaline, and then the classic fight-or-flight reactions…if you're lucky. In war, it'll pretty much be like what I've described: chaotic, messy, and brutal," Wong added.

"I agree," a Team-1 Rainbow shooter agreed. "Three years ago, I was surrounded by a group of punks who tried to rob me."

"What happened?" Vega asked.

The operative smiled evilly. "I'm here, and they're not. Thank God for—"

"Eh, better not say it out loud," Cheah warned.

"Aren't you working on a hand-to-hand combat technique yourself, Cheah?" Covington asked, turning.

"Aye," Cheah affirmed with a nod. "Can't tell you much; I'm still refining it. All I can say is that it has worked for me on multiple occasions, and that these commandos use it," he said, gesturing at the Singaporeans.

"Cheah, I thought—" Wong protested.

"Sure, they're your ideas…but who created you?" Cheah countered.

"…Oh."

"Well, do carry on."

"Wait," Clark interrupted. "Steven Gao, you said that you slashed the terrorist's throat, right?"

Gao nodded. "Yah."

"Didn't he scream? Slashing a man's throat is very painful, and he'll scream as he dies."

"Well…I don't exactly know why he didn't scream," Gao admitted.

"Probably because he did it right," a Team-1 operative offered.

"What do you mean?" Clark wondered.

"Well, sir, the technique he used sounds a lot like what I was taught to do in the Special Forces. We slice through both the jugular vein and the carotid artery to maximize blood loss, hopefully throwing him into shock and preventing him from screaming. Besides, Gao cut the vocal chords too…probably because to reduce the risk of him shouting or something, right?"

"Yah…"

Truth be told, he himself didn't know. His instructor had said something like that a long time ago, but there he provided no proof of that.

"What happened to your USP anyway?" Clark wondered, turning to Wong.

"Well, back at HQ, I stripped it down. Turned out that the suppressor and chamber was clogged with blood, tissue, and other matter. The pistol was jammed because of that. I think the stuff was blown back into the gun when I fired into the terrorist at that range," Wong mused.

"Lucky you had the knife, right?" Falcone asked.

"I could have taken him on with my bare hands if necessary," the Singaporean replied, a little too soberly for comfort.

"Anyway, Chris, do continue," Ding said.

"There's not very much for me to say after this point. After the assault team arrived on shore, Blue Team set up perimeter security while the others continued with the job. I think Tay over there's more qualified to tell you what happened next," Wong added.

"Pete?" Chavez asked, turning to face Peter Tay.

"Well, it's not as dramatic as Chris' part," Tay started "Shortly after arrival…"

--

"SITREP," Tay whispered into Wong's ear.

Tay and his 2IC had met up with Wong and Gao. The other commandos were scanning the area, weapons at the ready.

"We killed four Tangos. I don't think anybody has noticed the commotion so far. They're keeping in touch with their colleagues with a radio in the shack, reporting times unknown. There're four boats in the jetty, not six: I don't know where're the other two. Sooner or later, somebody's going to miss the dead men. Better move quickly," Wong replied.

"Okay," Tay acknowledged, then filled in the others over the radio.

"Move out!" he ordered.

Blue Team moved into position. Wong, Kumar and Gao occupied the shack, while Lee and another commando named Muhammad Hafiz found cover behind the barrels. Red Team slinked off into the jungles, while Green and Gold Teams headed for the path.

Tay took the lead, MP5A5 up and scanning. His point man, Imran, was ahead of him, leading the way. Tay activated his NVGs as soon as he entered the dark jungle. Moving stealthily, he avoided twigs, leaves, and other vegetation as much as possible to cut down on noise, and to prevent leaving a trail, all the while following Imran.

Ducking under a low branch and circling around a tree, he continued following the point man. Imran silently called for a halt using his hands, then checked his Global Positioning Satellite system, shaped to resemble a PDA and stored in a pouch on his back. In addition to being accurate to ten meters, providing the latest maps, and so-called 'combat proof', it also came with a digital compass. In the jungle, it was very easy to get lost with the use of a compass, and they all knew that it was far better to trust a compass than one's instincts.

"Go-team, Gold Lead. In position," the radio declared.

The men acknowledged the team by pressing their radios' push-to-talk switches twice.

After perhaps five minutes of stalking silently through the vegetation and undergrowth, the men arrived at a small-sized clearing. A bit of radio chatter ensued, after Green Team eliminated the investigating party, and Gold Team decided on what to do next. In its middle was a large one-storey wooden hut, supposedly used to store the arms cache the Singaporeans were after. From where he was, Tay could only see a bored guard patrolling the perimeter. It didn't mean that there were no other sentries.

In the sub, it was generally agreed that the Singaporeans should recce (recon) their target zones before striking. That way, they would know what they were up against. Desmond Chen, the team marksman, and Morhan, the team 2IC and demo expert, split from the group.

The two men circled around the clearing, weapons ready to deal with any unexpected contact. They moved stealthily around the clearing, again not leaving any sign of their presence. They were on the side opposite their compatriots when the radio came to life.

"Go-team, Blue Lead. The terrorist's CO is checking in. From what I can tell, he's sending a couple of men to the jetty to investigate."

The rest of the commandos pressed their radios' push-to-talk switches twice in rapid succession, acknowledging him. Morhan scanned the area from his position, noting a guard standing to the left of the doorway leading into the hut. Using the zoom function on his NV/TI goggles, Chen noted that the terrorist was armed with an AK-47, still the choice arm of terrorists around the world.

"Red Lead, Red Four," Morhan whispered, activating his radio. "There's another guard, next to the door."

"Roger. Go-team, Red Team is in place," Red Lead called. The patrolling guard had by then crossed over to Morhan's side. Chen took careful aim at the door guard, placing the front sight just above his right ear, while the Indian commando trained his sights on the other sentry. Both men were formerly from the SOF; they were trained supremely well in the art of the headshot…never mind that it was only applicable in some cases.

"Red Lead, Red Two," Chen muttered into his radio. "I'm aiming at the Tango guarding the door."

"Red Lead, this is Red Four," Morhan whispered, his voice resounding over the radio net. "I'm aiming at the patrolling sentry."

Half a minute passed. Morhan tracked the patrolling Tango, seeing him stop in front of the door guard, and chat with him. That was good; a moving target is always harder to hit.

"Go-team, Gold Lead. In position."

A muted series of _clicks_ ensued, before: "Roger, Gold Lead," Tay whispered. "Go-team, Red Lead. Execute on my mark. Three, two, one, _MARK!_"

Two shots rang out, echoing loudly throughout the jungle. As Tay and his team burst from the jungle, he saw the two Tangos fall to the ground. Tay stormed towards the hut, raising his MP5A5, flicking the safety selector to full automatic. Aiming at the closer of the fallen Tango, he fired a round into his throat (he missed), and another into his lower jaw. Another Red Team member fired another double-tap into the other downed terrorist.

The five men stacked up next to the doorway (this hut had no doors, the men realized), Chen and Morhan on the left, with the others on the right. When ready, Imran stormed into the room, quickly scanning and turning his back to face the closest wall. Morhan followed, and so did the rest of the team. Imran and Morhan continued moving, giving the others time to enter while seizing the advantage.

Through his NVGs (Imran belatedly realized that he should have taken them off), he saw a terrorist at the far end of the room, and another one next to him. The former was facing the wrong way, while the latter had an AK and was looking at him. Imran snapped his weapon up, and fired a short burst into his chest, following his commando training. That Tango dropped to the ground. Chen fired a single round into the other's head, seeing him collapse.

The chest-shot Tango groaned, coughing up blood.

Contrary to Hollywood, 9mm bullets, especially FMJ ones, are usually lacking in stopping power. In this case, it wouldn't matter had Imran shot the terrorist in the heart, like he was hoping to. Instead, his bullets had missed, entering his lungs instead.

Noting the aberration, the commandos aimed as one, and let loose a volley of rounds that tore the terrorist up.

--

"Was that necessary?" Clark asked. Especially because he was a military man and had taken lives, he always saw killing as a tool of last resort…but was not afraid to use it when necessary.

"No such thing as overkill, and we couldn't leave any witnesses," Tay replied, matter-of-factly.

"'_mano_, did you have to empty your mags into him?" Ding asked.

"Hey, that's what our training said. If a wounded enemy is still alive and is still a threat, shoot him until he ceases being one," Tay replied calmly, taking a swig of beer. "Hell, I still have nightmares."

"Same here," John Clark replied. He had never gotten used to the fact that he had killed, directly or indirectly, countless numbers of VC in Vietnam, some little shits in Baltimore and New Orleans (except maybe Billy), multiple faceless and nameless terrorists in the MidEast, some Columbian druggies, (okay, maybe not them), a couple dozen Japanese who were only doing their duty…and that was just for starters. Once in a blue moon, he woke in a cold sweat as he dreamed of how the dead men would take their revenge. He had never admitted it to Sandy or Ding…or anyone.

"Don't we all? At least, if we can call ourselves soldiers?" Cheah muttered rhetorically. "Like it or not, the art of war is vital to the existence of the state. While war takes lives, it must never be forgotten that the purpose of the art of war is to ultimately save lives…at least, ideally. That is to say, fighting a just war."

The others stared blankly at the cadet.

"War has its uses, I'll admit," Cheah continued. "When diplomacy fails, when the enemy will only listen to the sound of battle and the taste of blood and steel, the use of force is the only option left."

"Like in this case?" Wong asked of the air.

"Aye. Negotiation wouldn't have helped here."

"By the way, do you know what Green and Gold Teams did?" Tay asked. "The AAR didn't reveal much."

"Yeah, I know," Cheah replied. Standing up, he positioned himself in front of the men, and addressed them.

"After Tay's SITREP…"

--

Green and Gold team dispersed from the site, keeping to shadows and cover whenever possible. Both teams headed for the trail, with Green Team on the left flank and Gold Team on the right.

Stalking through the jungle, the men recalled their jungle warfare training, careful not to leave any sign. The trail twisted and turned here and there, but otherwise led to the same location. The only sound the men heard were the chirping of crickets. Their black uniforms and dark-painted faces blended in with the night's shadows, and the commandos became one with the dark.

They arrived at the terrorists' camp without any drama. The Green Team commander, Dzulhairi, gripped his MP5A5 in his hands, scanning the camp with his NVGs. His target building was guarded by a single guard, leaning against the wooden walls on the left of the open doorway, smoking a cigarette. The other building had another guard, who was either asleep at his post or pretending to be. A couple of bored terrorists walked around the camp, their body language indicating that they were bored to hell.

_Stay bored, guys_, the commando thought, using his left hand to order his point man to reconnoiter the rear of the building. As soon as the sentries were out of earshot, Dzulhairi clicked the push-to-talk switch.

"Go-team, Green Lead. In position."

He was rewarded with a staccato of double clicks. Scanning the environment, he kept as still as possible, knowing that the human eye perceives movement very well in the night, never mind that the smoker's night vision was effectively shot.

He felt the adrenaline and tension building up within him. Dzulhairi ordered himself to calm down, to stay loose even as his heart rate accelerated, his breathing went shallow, and his mouth went dry. Then, there was nothing at all…and he was ready.

There was some activity in the other target hut. A couple of men left the building, and headed for the trail.

"Go-team, Blue Lead. The terrorist's CO is checking in. From what I can tell, he's sending a couple of men to the jetty to investigate," Wong reported.

"Blue Lead, Green Lead. We'll take care of it."

He looked at his men. His point man had returned, and gestured that there was a Tango guarding the generator. Dzulhairi used his hands to tell the men to take out the investigating as quietly as possible. A pair of former SOF commandos, an Indian named Samy and a Chinese man called Andy Heng volunteered.

Slinging their weapons over their backs, the two commandos took up positions. They followed the terrorists' movements with their eyes, seeing them enter the trail. The commandos followed them on a parallel track, moving through the jungle as stealthily as possible while the unaware guards followed the trail. As soon as the terrorists were out of sight of the main camp, the commandos struck.

Sneaking out of the tree line, Heng gestured to Samy that he would take the Tango on the left. Heng stalked his terrorist, keeping him within his peripheral vision and moving as quietly as possible. The Tango kept moving, unaware of the commando covertly approaching him from behind. Heng controlled his breathing at the last meter, than struck. Gripping the top of the terrorist's head with his left hand and the bottom of his skull with his right, Heng rapidly twisted them, breaking the terrorist's neck.

Samy was not as fortunate. All men have a sixth sense of sorts; they can tell when a person has his/her eyes on him. Samy allowed his gaze to linger on the Tango for too long. The terrorist sensed something behind him, and turned around. Both terrorist and commando looked at each other, their eyes locking for a second and a lifetime.

Samy acted faster. Springing up from the deep crouch he was in, he extended his right hand, opening it into a palm, and drove it at an upward angle into the Tango's nose. The terrorist's nose buckled, and then entered his brain.

Both guards collapsed soundlessly. The commandos picked them up and carried them into the jungle, erasing all traces of their presence.

Meanwhile, Gold Team's point man, John De Silva, and the 2IC, Jake See, was circling around the camp. Creeping through the jungle, they scanned the camp with their heavy helmet-mounted NVGs. De Silva set his to thermal imaging, and saw the world turn into shades of blue, green, yellow, orange, and red, signifying the amount of heat emitted by an object.

Using the goggles, De Silva scanned Building 4. Judging by its noise and heat emissions, he decided that it was really a generator. See's NV image confirmed that. See also saw an open door behind the Building 3, possibly an escape route.

"Go-team, Green One," Samy reported. "The investigating party is dead. Back in place."

De Silva spotted a terrorist next to the generator and told See that using his hands, even though See could see him from there.

"Gold Lead, Gold Four," See whispered into his mike. "There's a Tango behind the target building. There's also an opening on the twelve o'clock of the site. Advise, over."

"Gold Four, Gold Lead. Take out the Tango when Red Lead gives the go-ahead. Gold Two, cover the opening and intercept any fleeing hostiles."

"Roger."

See raised his MP5A5, aiming it at the Tango's chest. Apart from the only Muslim on the team, he wasn't from the SOF, and wasn't well trained in taking headshots in close environs. He could do it, but he decided that he couldn't, not at this range.

"Go-team, Gold Lead. In position."

"Roger, Gold Lead," Red Lead whispered. "Go-team, Red Lead. Execute on my mark. Three, two, one, _MARK!_"

See squeezed the trigger, concentrating so hard on his sight picture that he barely felt the nearly-nonexistent recoil. The terrorist dropped to the ground, with a 9mm bullet in the chest, screaming as he did so. See fired a long burst into the terrorist, silencing him. Releasing the weapon, he let it swing free on its sling as he headed for the generator, preparing to tinker with it.

De Silva was rushing for the door. He raced up to its right side, then crouched and covered the door. He heard loud explosions from within, and some shouting. He waited. Suddenly, a dark figure ran out. Squeezing down on the trigger, De Silva hosed the Tango down with six 9mm rounds.

The terrorist fell to his right, bleeding from multiple wounds to the lower and upper torso. But, he was still alive. The only thing the bullets did was to excavate six straight tunnels in his body, roughly ten millimeters in diameter. Seeing the commando in front of him, the Tango tried to bring his weapon to bear.

Cursing, De Silva brought his MP5A5 up, and fired a single shot into the terrorist's head.

Meanwhile, the three other members of Gold Team stacked up next to the HQ building's open doorway. A few seconds later, he lights from within went out. The men tossed in a pair of stun grenades. After a pair of deafening explosions, the men moved in.

The leader was another Eurasian, Eddy Roderick. Roderick led the way, moving into the HQ. Scanning, he saw a pair of standing targets. It was too close to use his NVGs; he was relying on his natural night vision.

Raising his MP5A5, he shot the closer one once in the head, following SOP. He dropped to the floor. Another of his men killed the other one. Scanning, he saw that there were two openings on the right wall.

"Room clear! I'm going to the opening on the right!" he shouted. "Take the left opening!"

It was all right to shout now…he hoped. Roderick realized that he was now in front of the opening, a grave mistake in CQB…but what the hell. Roderick rushed forward, MP5A5 raised. Entering the room he had taken, he automatically turned, scanning the room.

He had entered a kitchen. At least, that was as far as he could tell from the field cooking sets on the ground. There were no enemies here.

"Clear!" he shouted.

The other two Gold Team members, Lee May and Abdul, meanwhile, stacked up next to their opening, just in time to see a Tango rush out. Abdul riddled him in the chest with a flurry of bullets, spraying blood and guts all over the opposite wall. Lee prepared a stun grenade, then tossed it into the room beyond.

The men made entry after the detonation. They were just in time to see a terrorist flee the building through the other opening. Lee took aim, fired, and…missed. A long burst from outside, followed by a single round, signified the terrorist's fate.

"Clear!" Abdul shouted.

Green Team had an easier time. The team stacked up outside the target building, then armed a pair of frag grenades, letting them cook off for three seconds (they had a four-second fuse) before throwing them through the doorway. They sailed into the room beyond, and exploded when they hit the ground, sending lethal fragments sailing through the air.

The five men burst into the room, one after another. Staying low, the leading commandos reverted to their FIBUA training, spraying their MP5A5's mags low and across the room, from left to right and back, shooting up everything and everyone they saw with 9mm rounds.

They mostly saw sleeping bags scattered across the ground, so they riddled them with bullets, whether they were empty or not. A terrorist, rudely awakened, shot to his feet, and was shot down by a stream of rounds soon after. Clouds of sawdust filled the air, mixing with screams, gunfire, blood, gore, bone chips, and bodily fluids. The commandos advanced, methodically loosing rounds into everything they thought needed attention. Now and then, a commando would reload, covered by the others, but the momentum of the attack continued unabated, violence of action in its purest form.

After half a minute, it was all over. Silence returned to the barracks as a heavy stillness descended upon the killing ground.

"Building clear," Dzulhairi announced.

Then, they heard gunfire from the jetty.

--

"Not exactly picture-perfect, but it'll do," Ding commented. "I would have taken out the generator guard with a knife or bare hands, though."

"Good improvisation by Roderick too, though he was lucky that there weren't any terrorists waiting for him," Clark added.

"They know," Cheah assured them. "They thought about that in the AAR."

"Why the different tactics?" Chin asked. "I mean, the commandos were using two sets of tactics throughout the operation."

"The ex-SOF guys followed SOF doctrine, as far as I know, and the ex-commandos reverted to their training," Wong replied. "Remember that we barely had time to get to know each other, much less get a feel for each others' tactics and thinking. We smoothened things out some time after that. Remember that men, in times of crises, will fight as they train."

"Yeah," Covington seconded, remembering that he almost shot his first terrorist in the chest.

"Over time, we worked out a doctrine that covered everything," Wong added. "We tested it again in another op, this time in…somewhere or other. It went better than this time."

"That's good," Chavez said, out of courtesy. "What happened in the end?"

"It's not over yet," Wong added grimly. "You see, while all that was going on…"

--

Wong felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to his left.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"See that?" Gao said, pointing at a couple of dark shapes in the distance.

"Looks like two boats," Kumar added on his right, "heading this way."

"Oh shit."

Wong looked out into the open sea from his place on the firing slit. The men had left the gas lamp on, in an attempt at normalcy. They did, however, keep out of sight as much as possible.

Activating his NVGs, Wong used their built-in zoom function to take a closer look.

The two boats in question were occupied by six men each, laden with crates, possibly supplies. The men were unarmed, as far as he could tell. That was when he noticed a glint of metal from a crate covered with a piece of canvas, reflecting the moonlight. Taking a closer look, he saw that it was a barrel of a rifle of sorts, unwittingly exposed to the light.

That meant that the boats' occupants were armed, and that was that.

_Could be a supply run_, he mused. _Could be the missing two boats…but we can't assume anything_.

"Blue Lead, Blue Four. There're a pair of boats heading this way. Looks like they're the missing two boats. What do we do? Ambush them?"

"Blue Team, Blue Lead. We'll wait and see. If the boats moor at the jetty, we ambush the occupants, and neutralize everyone aboard. Blue One and Four, shoot the one on the right. Rest of you, take the one on the left."

"They look unarmed," Hafiz worried.

"They're carrying rifles in those crates, as far as I can tell," Gao countered.

"Okay, then," Hafiz acquiesced.

"Blue Team, Blue Lead. Prepare yourselves."

The men took the time to check their gear. They ensured that the safety catches of their carbines were pointing at 'AUTO', that their mags were securely locked into the mag well, and a trillion other factors, all the while watching the boats approach. Sweat rolled down their faces as the tension grew. Wong reminded himself that he had to relax, and let adrenaline temporarily overpower his senses. After the flood of adrenaline subsided, everything was all right. Looking over the parapet, Kumar, Gao, and Wong aimed their M4A1s at the approaching boat.

Wong prayed that the boats wouldn't arrive. He saw killing only as his duty; he never loved it…but he would do so again, if he must. Deep down, he knew that everyone in the unit agreed with him: they all believed in their motto, that all life was precious.

Hafiz and Lee were preparing behind their so-called cover as well.

"Whatever you do, make sure they don't shoot at us," Hafiz whispered.

"Why? These oil barrels won't blow up when shot at, you know. This isn't Hollywood or a computer game," Lee added.

"It's not that. It's just that they're kinda thin. I don't want to use them for cover; bullets can penetrate their metal walls very easily."

"Oh."

"Here they come!" Hafiz whispered urgently, training his weapon on his target boat.

The two boats glided smoothly into the shallow water, their motor engines giving their positions away. The boats headed for the jetty, their occupants looking around, searching for their dead comrades.

"Stand by, stand by," Blue Lead whispered, moving his rifle's front sight over a terrorist's chest. "Three…two…one…execute!"

Pulling the trigger, he saw his target jerk and spasm as a 5.56x45mm bullet tore into him. Moving his carbine, Wong sprayed the boat over and over again, not hearing the weapons' report, not feeling the recoil, not doing anything but seeing the weapons' effect on the boats and their occupants.

The terrorists danced involuntarily, shredded by the hail of bullets. Some lived long enough to scream, others didn't. The roaring gunfire continued as round after round screamed into a target, be it wood, metal, flesh, or otherwise. The commandos reloaded their weapons as soon as they were empty, then fired some more, killing the terrorists again and again.

After a minute or so, Wong screamed "CEASE FIRE!" into the radio net, not knowing that the rest of the team (and himself) was deafened by the gunfire. Repeating the order twice, the men finally released their fingers from the triggers.

And then, it was over.

The heavy stench of cordite settled into the shack, but the three commandos had no time to breathe it in. Blue Team headed for the boats, and began the grisly task of searching them.

--

"Let me tell you right now that it's nothing like what Hollywood thinks it is," Wong said. "The 5.56mm NATO tumbles as it enters flesh, maximizing damage. It produces a small entry hole and a large exit wound as a result.

"Some of the bodies had huge wounds all over their torso. One or two was missing his head. Others had their limbs shot off. No matter what we did to them, the terrorists were all dead, one way or the other. The boats were so bullet-ridden that they were taking in water by the time we were done checking for nonexistent pulses. The crates held supplies of all sorts, ranging from ammunition to food. I can still remember the blood and gore. …Damn," he concluded.

"Are you all right?" Clark asked.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, taking another pull from his pint. "It's just that I never wish to revisit that scene."

"War's ugly, man," Chavez seconded, remembering Columbia.

"Aye," Cheah agreed. "Ironically, that's what mankind does best. Back to you, Tay."

"After the ambush, we declared the island clear," Tay said. "We used the terrorists' cache of explosives and detonators to destroy their buildings. The barrels at the jetty were full of oil, probably for the boats. We used the oil to burn the bodies, weapons, boats, and whatever evidence we had left behind.

"Once that was done, we exfiltrated from the site, and arrived in the SOC at 0415 hours. We conducted an AAR right away, then brought our kit to our bunks."

"You can do that?" Chin wondered.

"Yah," Gao affirmed. "We were on Code Red at that time, so we were authorized to do that. After changing out of our ops clothing, we slept for a long time."

"I see. Did your superiors give any token of recognition?" Chavez asked.

"No," Wong replied, almost immediately. "Our unit doesn't exist. _We_ don't exist, as far as MINDEF is concerned. No decorations for us."

"Okay…but I'm sure that you don't need any, right?" Chavez added.

"Yes, we don't," Wong said, shaking his head.

"Why's that?" Loiselle asked.

"It's enough for us to know that we did our duty."

Author's Note: I know, it's kind of long, but there wasn't any other alternative from my perspective. The tactics used by the SOF and commandos are based on what I've observed (exceedingly little, before you ask), as well as that of other SpecOps groups, taken from open sources. Some of the equipment doesn't exist (the GPS and goggles, for example) right now; they're modifications of existing technology. The hand-to-hand combat technique is mine, and I think I'll get it copyrighted before I release its name (along with anything related to the Singaporeans). That is to say, if I can find the time to do so: my exams are coming…


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue: Goodbye 

Hereford, Runway

The Singaporeans checked their kit for the last time, ensuring that everything was in order. The ten of them checked the crates of equipment they had taken into (and were now taking out of) Britain, assisting the loadies (loadmasters).

Team Rainbow pitched in, checking that the crates were properly secured. A Singaporean C-130 Hercules, piloted by a crew of ignorant Air Force personnel who knew better than to ask, waited patiently on the runway.

Domingo Chavez looked around. In the pre-morning gloom, a thick layer of fog had settled across the base, with dewdrops marking cooler areas. The darkness hindered the men only as long as it took for them to 'borrow' some flashlights and chemlights. The Singaporeans were going through their crates, checking that the equipment inside corresponded with copies of the nonexistent load manifest Wong, Tay, Lee, Imran, and the chief loadie were holding in clipboards procured from somewhere. The NATO troopers knew better than to assist.

A Team-1 operator, for want of activity, was driving a forklift to haul crates from the collection area to the side of the runway to the cargo hold of the Herky Bird. Some volunteers from Team-1 and Team-2 were inspecting the airstrip, removing anything not bolted down to prevent foreign object damage.

Chavez exhaled, his breath condensing in the cool air. He'd miss the Singaporeans, like the way he found himself wishing that he could have spent more time with the Spetsnaz teams they had trained some time ago. It had been a long time since they had met operatives of their caliber, and even longer since they had seen people that committed to their duty, and country. It was a shame that John Clark had to meet the Minister of Defence in an 'urgent' meeting; it would have been more appropriate for him to see the Singaporeans off.

Then again, it's probably because it had been a long time since they had met people from conventional military units.

Chavez suppressed a chuckle.

"Good morning," a strangely accented voice greeted, next to him.

"Mornin'," Chavez replied, almost automatically.

He was slow today. It took his brain a second or two to figure out that there was only one person he knew that spoke with a mixture of English accents…and that he wasn't supposed to be here.

"Cheah? What the hell are you doing here!" he exclaimed, turning.

The writer shook his head. "I don't have to explain it to you all over again, do I?" he half-whined.

"No, not really…but why are you here?"

"They're my men, my compatriots…do I need any other reason?"

The Singaporeans had inspected the last of their cargo, and were now letting the loadies do their bit. Dressed in Smart No. 4 uniforms, the men headed for their NATO counterparts. Team-1 and Team-2 assembled at the collection area.

Wong walked up to Chavez.

"It's been an honor to train with you, with Team Rainbow," he said.

"Same here," Chavez agreed.

Walking forward, Wong silently reached his hand out.

Chavez took it, and shook Wong's hand. The Singaporean had a firm grip, and shook Chavez's hand, his right hand oscillating once. The rest of the Singaporeans and Team Rainbow shook each other's hands, offering well wishes and good luck.

As the Singaporeans turned to head for the Hercules, they stopped, and turned around. As though by unspoken command, as one, the Singaporeans stood-to, and crisply saluted the NATO troopers. Rainbow reciprocated, their salutes as sharp as any honor guard's.

A moment passed in silence. Time stood still. The world melted away as the soldiers from East and West locked each other's gaze. Several SAS passers-by stopped to watch, but the soldiers didn't care. The men's breath became visible, little puffs of white in the morning chill. The Singaporeans' Airborne and marksmanship badges caught the glow off the runway beacons, glistening in the dark. The men wore commando shoulder flashes on their sleeves and the distinctive red berets of SAF commandos, the only identification badges the Singaporeans would ever wear, and only for formal occasions.

Rainbow was wearing featureless black base fatigues. Apart from ranks, nothing else adorned their uniforms. Chavez mused that both the organizations had temporarily swapped identities.

Cheah stood at the sidelines, standing at attention. Like the Singaporeans, he was dressed in uniform, only that his was designed for the youth of the National Cadet Corps. The NCC crest mounted on his green beret, above his left eye, shone dully in the dark. A row of four badges, signifying his proficiency in drills, orienteering, swimming, and showing his physical fitness state, was pinned above his left breast pocket. Another badge, pinned higher up, was proof that he had passed the Singapore Anti-Narcotics Association's tests. Yet another badge, pinned just under and next to his left collar, indicated that he had achieved the Gold Total Defence badge. A final badge, made of cloth, was attached to a circular patch of Velcro sewn high on his left shoulder. It was the prestigious Army-NCC badge, awarded only to cadets who had attained a specialist rank and higher.

First Sergeant (NCC) B Cheah K W briefly noted that he had to be one of the least-decorated sergeants in his company…but what the hell. He had earned the right to be here. This was his men, his creation, his story, and he'll be damned if he didn't see it through to the end.

After an eternity, the SpecOps men lowered their hands.

"Well, goodbye," Chavez said to the Singaporeans. Farewells weren't his specialty…and right now, he had no idea what to do.

"Goodbye," Wong replied.

The Singaporeans turned, and walked towards the bird out.

Cheah returned to parade rest, seeing the black ops men enter the cargo hold. Taking a few steps forward, he entered Chavez's view. At this point in time, Chavez finally remembered that Cheah was still around.

"Hey, Cheah!" he called.

The cargo door closed.

"Yeah?" Cheah answered, turning to face Chavez.

The Hercules taxied into position.

"Aren't you going with them?"

The transport plane's massive engines screamed, powering up.

"No! I'm catching another flight!" Cheah shouted above the engine noise.

The engines produced a strong backwash, sweeping across the length of the airstrip and engulfing Team Rainbow. Cheah's uniform shirt fluttered in the powerful wind.

"Goodbye, then!"

The Hercules started down the runway.

"A goodbye isn't forever!"

Cheah turned around, facing the C-130, now accelerating down the airstrip.

"Wait!" Chavez called.

Cheah turned around.

"What's the name of the Singaporeans' unit? They didn't tell me what it was!"

Cheah's mouth moved, but his one-word reply was lost in the noise.

"What?" Chavez screamed.

Cheah smiled.

The Hercules took off.

Before Chavez could ask, a piece of grit flew into his eyes. Looking away, he rubbed them, forcing the dirt out. When he was fairly sure that it was gone, he looked up, turning to Cheah.

But he was gone.

The End 

Final Author's Note: I couldn't stop myself from describing myself, before you ask. My name is something I don't release to just anybody for personal reasons. Anyway, this miniseries owes its creation to Typewriter King, who suggested that I write a subreality to 'disguise' my military guide. Shame I couldn't find the opportunity to put in some more details, due to time constraints. In addition, I'd like to thank domingochavez, for information regarding the use of NVGs in close quarters (and some more). Now, I'll have to study…


End file.
